Books, Graphic Novels, and Other Works of Literature

Sword and Subterfuge: The Eyes of the Dragon

1/2/2026

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1984, Ages 13 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of two princes—one wrongfully accused of murder, the other manipulated by an evil magician.
(1/2/26)

On page 12 of his art book, The Goblins of Labyrinth, Brian Froud provides the following description of the goblin artist Püg “(pronounced, for no apparent reason, ‘guppie’)”:

“His early canvases—such as The Death and Destruction of a Million Goblins of Uncertain Dispositions or his widely acclaimed Heads Being Banged by Something Big and Horrible—were wildly popular amongst goblins of all types and dimensions. His popularity began to wane, however, as he moved onto more experimental and—to the goblin mind—more controversial subjects, such as Several Beautiful Princesses Enjoying a Wonderful Picnic Under the Most Pleasant Circumstances or the much-reviled Happy Goblins Being Pleasant to Someone Who Was Kind to Them.”

Now, obviously, this is played for laughs. In all seriousness, though, it is rather sad when an established artist, whether to expand creative horizons or for more personal reasons, creates something vastly different in style from their usual work, only for fans to reject it or never give it a chance despite its own unique merits.

What if I were to tell you this very thing happened to the King of Horror himself?

In the fair kingdom of Delain, the flawed but well-meaning King Roland has sired two sons. Peter, the first-born, is everything a fairy-tale prince and heir to the throne should be: handsome, wise, brave, and strong. Second-born Thomas, however, is not: clumsy, sickly, slow-witted, and ever stuck in his elder brother’s shadow. His bitter jealousy of Peter’s achievements does not go unnoticed by Roland’s court magician, Flagg, who despises the royal family and seeks the ruination of Delain. A few well-planted grains of Dragon Sand, the deadliest of all poisons, leaves King Roland in the agonizing throes of a fiery death, Peter framed and condemned to rot in Delain’s tallest tower, and the newly crowned Thomas to be controlled like the weak and frightened puppet Flagg has raised him to be. But unbeknownst to the evil sorcerer, the two brothers each harbor a devastating secret: a desperate plan that could free Peter from his prison without, and a haunting memory that could free Thomas from his own within.

King wrote and dedicated Eyes to his daughter Naomi, who requested a fantasy story from him as she preferred dragons over horror. Upon publication, however, many established fans were quick to snub the book both because of its younger target audience and its lack of King’s trademark horror elements. In fact, as of writing, except for 1977’s Rage and 1981’s Roadwork, this is his oldest novel to have received no kind of adaptation whatsoever. But this cool reception and his feeling stuck writing in the horror genre did help inspire the creation of King’s next iconic novel, Misery, about a deranged woman keeping her favorite author hostage for daring to kill off her favorite character to move on to other stories. So . . . without The Eyes of the Dragon, we would never have gotten the gift of Annie Wilkes in all her psychotic, “hobbling” glory. Take that for what it’s worth! ;)

While I’m not the biggest King fan—shocking, I know—it would be too simplistic for me to say I like this book more than his others just because it’s a fantasy. Much of it is generational: I have a much harder time understanding his plentiful 70’s and early 80’s pop culture references than I do fairy tale-like stories which are universal by design. So much the better to appreciate King’s omniscient narrator. They remind me of John Hurt as the titular Jim Henson’s the Storyteller, but with a seasoned voice more appropriate for a maturing teen audience. As modest as they are shrewd, this anonymous teller of tales addresses, informs and entertains the reader in a way that invites them to think of the characters as more than mere players on a make-believe stage:

“Perhaps you are wondering what Thomas was like, and some of you may already be casting him in a villain’s part, as a willing co-schemer in Flagg’s plot to snatch the crown from its rightful owner.
This was not really the case at all, although to some it always seemed so, and of course Thomas did play a part. He did not seem, I admit, to be a really good boy—at least, not at first glance. He was surely not a good boy in the way that Peter was a good boy, but no brother would have looked really good beside Peter, and Thomas knew it well by the time he was four [. . .]
The part Thomas played in his brother’s imprisonment was dishonorable, but even so he was not a really bad boy. I believe this, and hope that in time you will come to believe it, too.” (Pg. 52-54)

Speaking of major players: This is in fact Flagg’s second appearance after debuting as Randell Flagg in 1978’s The Stand. King would bring new malevolent versions of him into future stories like The Dark Tower series, Hearts in Atlantis, and Gwendy’s Button Box trilogy. This is the only Flagg story I’ve experienced as of writing, so I can’t make any comparisons regarding his other depictions. All I can say here is that he plays the role of the classic evil wizard with handsome demonic skill and elegance. His ability to read and manipulate people as easily as his copy of Lovecraft’s Necronomicon is what enables him to cause destruction with the swift and invisible indifference of a plague:

“He had come to Delain from Garlan in the time of Roland’s grandfather. In those days he had appeared to be a thin and stern-faced man of about forty. Now, in the closing years of Roland’s reign, he appeared to be a thin and stern-faced man of about fifty. Yet it had not been ten years, or even twenty, between then and now—it had been seventy-six years in all. [. . .]
[. . .]
Who was he, really, this dark man?
I do not know.
[. . .]
What did he want? That question I think I can answer.
He wanted what evil men always want: to have power and use that power to make mischief. Being a King did not interest him because the heads of Kings all too often found their way to spikes on castle walls when things went wrong. But the advisors to Kings . . . the spinners in the shadows . . . such people usually melted away like evening shadows at dawning as soon as the headsman’s axe started to fall. Flagg was a sickness, a fever looking for a cool brow to heat up. He hooded his actions just as he hooded his face. And when the great trouble came—as it always did after a span of years—Flagg always disappeared like shadows at dawn. Later, when the carnage was over and the fever had passed, when the rebuilding was complete and there was again something worth destroying, Flagg would appear once more.” (Pg. 60-63)

From what little I’ve read, several of King’s human characters—good and evil alike—are often a combination of alcoholic, depressed, or dealing with some albeit important but otherwise mundane personal issues. This makes sense, of course, considering his own history with alcohol and cocaine addiction. Nevertheless, it really is refreshing to see him write a character who embodies humanity at its noble and heroic. Peter, though just as realistically imperfect as any boy or man in a Stephen King novel, is one of those rare souls whose innate kingly virtues are apparent to literally everyone. Consider the scene from the 1959 religious epic Bun-Hur, in which Jesus Christ, with nothing but a gaze, brings comfort and joy to a beaten, water-deprived Judah, while making the bullying Roman soldiers think twice and back off. Likewise, Peter’s bearing alone is enough to humble even the most hardened and cynical of hearts:

“‘Who told you to kill this horse?’ he asked.
Yosef, a hardy and robust sixty, was a palace fixture. He was not apt to brook the interference of a snot-nosed brat easily, prince or no. He fixed Peter with a thunderous, heavy look that was meant to wilt the boy. Peter, then just nine, reddened, but did not wilt.
[. . .]
‘My father, and his father before him, and his father before him,’ Yosef said, seeing now that he was going to have to say something, like it or not. ‘That’s who told me to kill it. A horse with a broken leg is no good to any living thing, least of all to itself.’
[. . .]
He raised the maul in both hands.
‘Put it down,’ Peter said.
Yosef was thunderstruck. He had never been interfered with in such a way.
‘Here! Here! What are you a-saying?’
‘You heard me. I said put that hammer down.’ As he said these words Peter’s voice deepened. Yosef suddenly realized—really, really, realized—that it was the future King standing here in this dusty stableyard, commanding him. If Peter had actually said as much—if he had stood there in the dust squeaking, Put that down, put it down, I said, I’m going to be King someday, King, do you hear, so you put that down!, Yosef would have laughed contemptuously, spat, and ended the broken-legged horse’s life with one hard swing of his deeply muscled arms. But Peter did not have to say any such thing; the command was clear in his voice and eyes.” (Pg 45-46)

“Peter smiled for the first time since he had come to this cold, high place. His cheeks and chin were shadowed with the beginnings of a beard which would grow full and long in these two drafty rooms, and he looked quite a desperate character . . . until he smiled. The smile lit his face with magical power, made it strong and radiant, a beacon to which one could imagine soldiers rallying in battle.
[. . .]
The warders saw that smile and made no more jokes. There was something about it which forbade joking.” (Pg. 214)

And poor Thomas’ inferiority complex festers before this apparent demi-godhood. Even the perverse opportunity, courtesy of Flagg, to spy on his Peter-worshiping father through the glass eyes of a taxidermized dragon—hence the novel’s title—is soured by the hypocrisy of the latter’s disgusting drunkenness. Then, suddenly, Thomas is crowned for no other reason than one king is dead and another is incarcerated. Who cares if the new responsibility leaves him physically ill and at Flagg’s honey-tongued mercy? That Thomas feels some validation at last is cheap because it hasn’t been earned, petty because he thinks it has, and tragic because, after all this time watching him being second-rate, one still may not help but feel happy for him in a pitying sort of way:

“Thomas heeded Flagg’s advice not to go often, but he did use the passageway from time to time, and peeked at his father through the glass eyes of Niner [. . .] And perhaps Flagg’s instinct for mischief in this matter was not so bad at all, because by spying on his father, Thomas learned to feel a new thing for Roland. Before he knew about the secret passage he had felt love for him, and often a sorrow that he could not please him better, and sometimes fear. Now he learned to feel contempt, as well.
[. . .]
Thomas would slide the little panels back after a while and slink down the corridor again, his head pounding and an uneasy grin on his face—the head and grin of a boy who has been eating green apples and knows he may be sicker by morning than his is now.
This was the father he had always loved and feared?
He was an old man who farted out stinking clouds of steam.
This was the King his loyal subjects called Roland the Good?
He [p***ed] into the fire, sending up more clouds of steam.
This was the man who made his heart break by not liking his boat?
He talked to the stuffed heads on his walls, calling them silly names like Bonsey and Stag-Pool and Puckerstring. [. . .]
I don’t care for you anymore, Thomas would think, checking the peephole to make sure the corridor was empty and then creeping back to his room like a felon. You’re a filthy, silly old man and you’re nothing to me! Nothing at all! No!” (Pg. 96-98)

“Flagg took Thomas’s arm. In the years to come, it was a posture the inhabitants of the court city would become very familiar with—Flagg appearing to bear the boy King up as if he were an old man instead of a healthy youngster.
[. . .]
A cheer so great it was like the sound of surf breaking against the long, desolate strands of the Eastern Barony greeted their coming. Thomas looked around, amazed at the sound, and his first thought was: Where is Peter? Surely this must be for Peter! Then he remembered that Peter was in the Needle and realized the cheering was for him. He felt a dawning pleasure . . . and I must tell you that the pleasure was not just in knowing the cheers were for him. He knew that Peter, locked in his lonely tower rooms, must hear the cheering, too.
What does it matter now that you were always best in lessons? Thomas thought with a mean happiness that pricked him even as it warmed him. What does it matter now? You are locked in the Needle and I . . . I am to be King! [. . .]
[. . .]
[. . .] He couldn’t see if Peter was looking down, but he hoped Peter was. He hoped Peter was looking down and biting his lips in frustration until the blood flowed down his chin, as Thomas had often bitten his own lips—bitten them until there was a fine white network of scars there.
Do you hear that, Peter? he shrilled in his mind. They’re cheering for ME! They’re cheering for ME! They’re finally cheering for ME!” (Pg. 162-164)

Even after reading some of his more traditional works and long before becoming spoiled on the more creatively grotesque fare of Clive Barker and Junji Ito, I still think Stephen King is overrated, but I do respect him greatly. And even if I didn’t, I honestly do think his earlier readers’ opinions were premature on this one. Though no Hobbit or Harry Potter, let alone Carrie or Cujo, The Eyes of the Dragon is a straightforward but enthralling medieval tale of good vs. evil. Consider how much non-horror King has written in the years since and give this early experiment a spot in the fire light.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

Except where noted, all book excerpts are from The Eyes of the Dragon by Stephen King (circa-2001 paperback edition; published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.)

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A Hushing Bride: Lady Audley's Secret

9/5/2025

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1862, Ages 17 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of a man who suspects that his uncle’s new wife may somehow be involved in his best friend’s mysterious disappearance.
(9/5/25)

The inner sanctum of the domestic sphere as practiced by the people of Victorian-era Britain was not unlike a cliched fairy tale come to life. The woman would do very little other than occupy herself with domestic duties like housekeeping and childrearing—and often looking very attractive while doing it—as she waited diligently to be claimed as the reward by the man once he came home from “saving the day,” doing all the hard work and making all the fortune outside the home. Stereotypical though this may sound to our modern sensibilities, this setup nevertheless had the good intention of providing a sanctuary from the dangers and hardships of the outer world, not only a literal one, but a mental and emotional one as well. But as we have long since learned over the centuries, even our own personal Edens can and do hide their fair share of serpents.

Robert Audley, a somewhat lazy non-practicing barrister, receives a delightful surprise when he unexpectedly runs into his best friend, George Talboys. George has just returned to England after a three-year gold-digging expedition in Australia and is anxious to return to Helen and Georgey, the wife and infant son he’d left behind. But his homecoming turns tragic when he learns that Helen had died the week prior, and his son, now a young boy, sees his own father as a stranger. Wanting to lift the spirits of his devastated comrade, the sympathetic Robert invites George to accompany him on a visit to Audley Court to call upon his newly married uncle, Sir Micheal Audley, and cousin, Alicia. Robert is especially eager to meet his new aunt, the gentle and lovely Lady Audley, only for the two friends to just keep missing her. One stormy night, George gazes upon the lady’s portrait as if he has seen a ghost—before promptly disappearing himself the next day. Sensing foul play, Robert takes it upon himself to search for his friend by seeking out the true history and identity of Lady Audley . . . and facing the demon he discovers lurking behind her angelic mask.

Sensation fiction, at its peak popularity in the 1860’s and 70’s, is defined as fiction in which shocking material is used to explore contemporary social anxieties. But Lady Audley’s Secret—both the book and its author—raised eyebrows for more than just cheap shock value. In a most ironic and even hypocritical case of life imitating art, Braddon herself was involved in bigamy, just like her characters in the very plot she was still writing and selling! She first partly serialized the book in 1861 in John Maxwell’s Robin Goodfellow magazine. Not only would Braddon have an affair with Maxwell, who was already both a husband and father, but would go on to marry him upon his first wife’s death and bear her own children with him. Despite the ensuing scandal, or maybe because of it, Lady Audley’s Secret would be Braddon’s most successful and best-known work and one of, if not the finest, in the sensation genre.

Compared to overtly supernatural contemporaries like Bram Stoker’s Dracula or Robert Louis Stevenson’s Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, I think sensation stories made polite society more nervous back then for the same reason certain slasher or psychological horror films like Halloween or Saw make some modern audiences more nervous today: they are not outside the realm of reality or possibility. Though the eponymous character is painted as a fairy tale princess incarnate, it’s a portrait more ignorant and immature than elegant and dignified. While Braddon’s repetition of the word “childish” gets old fast, it’s fitting nonetheless—and not just because Lady Audley happens to be at least thirty years Sir Michael’s junior. The way she seldom seems to read the room, so to speak, acting so blithe when the present atmosphere is so solemn and grim, feels inappropriate to the point of callousness. Even the usually easy-going Robert is quick to notice this, his own eye for her beauty notwithstanding:

“‘He's a very good fellow,’ Robert said, stoutly; ‘and to tell the honest truth, I'm rather uneasy about him.’
‘Uneasy about him!’ My lady was quite anxious to know why Robert was uneasy about his friend.
‘I'll tell you why, Lady Audley,’ answered the young barrister. ‘George had a bitter blow a year ago in the death of his wife. He has never got over that trouble. He takes life pretty quietly—almost as quietly as I do—but he often talks very strangely, and I sometimes think that one day this grief will get the better of him, and he will do something rash.’
Mr. Robert Audley spoke vaguely, but all three of his listeners knew that the something rash to which he alluded was that one deed for which there is no repentance.
There was a brief pause, during which Lady Audley arranged her yellow ringlets by the aid of the glass over the console table opposite to her.
‘Dear me!’ she said, ‘this is very strange. I did not think men were capable of these deep and lasting affections. I thought that one pretty face was as good as another pretty face to them; and that when number one with blue eyes and fair hair died, they had only to look out for number two, with dark eyes and black hair, by way of variety.’
‘George Talboys is not one of those men. I firmly believe that his wife's death broke his heart.’
‘How sad!’ murmured Lady Audley. ‘It seems almost cruel of Mrs. Talboys to die, and grieve her poor husband so much.’
‘Alicia was right, she is childish,’ thought Robert as he looked at his aunt's pretty face.
My lady was very charming at the dinner-table; she professed the most bewitching incapacity for carving the pheasant set before her, and called Robert to her assistance.
‘I could carve a leg of mutton at Mr. Dawson's,’ she said, laughing; ‘but a leg of mutton is so easy, and then I used to stand up.’
Sir Michael watched the impression my lady made upon his nephew with a proud delight in her beauty and fascination.
‘I am so glad to see my poor little woman in her usual good spirits once more,’ he said. ‘She was very down-hearted yesterday at a disappointment she met with in London.’
‘A disappointment!’
‘Yes, Mr. Audley, a very cruel one,’ answered my lady. ‘I received the other morning a telegraphic message from my dear old friend and school-mistress, telling me that she was dying, and that if I wanted to see her again, I must hasten to her immediately. The telegraphic dispatch contained no address [. . .]’
‘It was very foolish not to send the address in the telegraphic message,’ said Robert.
‘When people are dying it is not so easy to think of all these things,’ murmured my lady, looking reproachfully at Mr. Audley with her soft blue eyes.
In spite of Lady Audley's fascination, and in spite of Robert's very unqualified admiration of her, the barrister could not overcome a vague feeling of uneasiness on this quiet September evening.”
(Pg. 120-121)

The negative socioeconomic impact of the Industrial Revolution also influenced sensation tales in that there became fewer smaller rural communities in which people knew each other intimately, as well as a significant shrinkage of social and personal gaps between the upper and lower classes. Phoebe, because of her status as Lady Audley’s maid, is never considered attractive despite her physical resemblance to her. But she is taken into the Lady’s confidence as more of a close companion, giving her a sense of superiority even while she self-righteously declares her humble loyalty. This, too, rocked Victorian readers as it showed them just how easily a quiet but watchful servant could access their rich employers’ secrets while hiding their own:

“‘I wish I could show you the jewels, Luke,’ said the girl; ‘but I can't, for she always keeps the keys herself; that's the case on the dressing-table there.’
‘What, that?’ cried Luke, staring at the massive walnut-wood and brass inlaid casket. ‘Why, that's big enough to hold every bit of clothes I've got!’
‘And it's as full as it can be of diamonds, rubies, pearls and emeralds,’ answered Phoebe, busy as she spoke in folding the rustling silk dresses, and laying them one by one upon the shelves of the wardrobe. As she was shaking out the flounces of the last, a jingling sound caught her ear, and she put her hand into the pocket.
‘I declare!’ she exclaimed, ‘my lady has left her keys in her pocket for once in a way; I can show you the jewelry, if you like, Luke.’
‘Well, I may as well have a look at it, my girl,’ he said, rising from his chair and holding the light while his cousin unlocked the casket. He uttered a cry of wonder when he saw the ornaments glittering on white satin cushions. He wanted to handle the delicate jewels; to pull them about, and find out their mercantile value. Perhaps a pang of longing and envy shot through his heart as he thought how he would have liked to have taken one of them.
‘Why, one of those diamond things would set us up in life, Phoebe,’ he said, turning a bracelet over and over in his big red hands.
‘Put it down, Luke! Put it down directly!’ cried the girl, with a look of terror; ‘how can you speak about such things?’
He laid the bracelet in its place with a reluctant sigh, and then continued his examination of the casket.
‘What's this?’ he asked presently, pointing to a brass knob in the frame-work of the box.
He pushed it as he spoke, and a secret drawer, lined with purple velvet, flew out of the casket.
‘Look ye here!’ cried Luke, pleased at his discovery.
Phoebe Marks threw down the dress she had been folding, and went over to the toilette table.
‘Why, I never saw this before,’ she said; ‘I wonder what there is in it?’
There was not much in it; neither gold nor gems; only a baby's little worsted shoe rolled up in a piece of paper, and a tiny lock of pale and silky yellow hair, evidently taken from a baby's head. Phoebe's eyes dilated as she examined the little packet.
‘So this is what my lady hides in the secret drawer,’ she muttered.
‘It's queer rubbish to keep in such a place,’ said Luke, carelessly.
The girl's thin lips curved into a curious smile.
‘You will bear me witness where I found this,’ she said, putting the little parcel into her pocket.
‘Why, Phoebe, you're not going to be such a fool as to take that,’ cried the young man.
‘I'd rather have this than the diamond bracelet you would have liked to take,’ she answered; ‘you shall have the public house, Luke.’” (Pg. 69-70)

But perhaps that’s the saddest aspect of this story, is that no one cares enough to take time to understand the people close to them, resulting in more than just the criminals and blackmailers carrying out their misdeeds under oblivious noses. Alicia, for instance, is disgusted by her stepmother’s frivolous immaturity, not to mention the sight of grown men falling for it. Thus, she never suspects that her cousin’s increasingly serious interest in Lady Audley is anything more than typical idiotic male fawning, further eroding their already brittle relationship.

This lack of personal appreciation extends even to Robert, who surprises himself when he puts his skills as a barrister to good use for once in tracking George and those who had contact with him. Unfortunate that Robert’s transformation into a more dedicated and responsible man has had to come at the expense of his dearest friend:

“Very late in the evening he rose from his chair, pushed away the table, wheeled his desk over to the fire-place, took out a sheet of fools-cap, and dipped a pen in the ink.
But after doing this he paused, leaned his forehead upon his hand, and once more relapsed into thought.
‘I shall draw up a record of all that has occurred between our going down to Essex and to-night, beginning at the very beginning.’
He drew up this record in short, detached sentences, which he numbered as he wrote.
It ran thus:

"JOURNAL OF FACTS CONNECTED WITH THE DISAPPEARANCE OF GEORGE TALBOYS, INCLUSIVE OF FACTS WHICH HAVE NO APPARENT RELATION TO THAT CIRCUMSTANCE."

In spite of the troubled state of his mind, he was rather inclined to be proud of the official appearance of this heading. He sat for some time looking at it with affection, and with the feather of his pen in his mouth. ‘Upon my word,’ he said, ‘I begin to think that I ought to have pursued my profession, instead of dawdling my life away as I have done.’
[. . .]
When Robert Audley had completed this brief record, which he drew up with great deliberation, and with frequent pauses for reflection, alterations and erasures, he sat for a long time contemplating the written page. (Pg. 133-135)

[. . .]

He rested his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. The one purpose which had slowly grown up in his careless nature until it had become powerful enough to work a change in that very nature, made him what he had never been before—a Christian; conscious of his own weakness; anxious to keep to the strict line of duty; fearful to swerve from the conscientious discharge of the strange task that had been forced upon him; and reliant on a stronger hand than his own to point the way which he was to go. Perhaps he uttered his first earnest prayer that night, seated by his lonely fireside, thinking of George Talboys. When he raised his head from that long and silent revery, his eyes had a bright, determined glance, and every feature in his face seemed to wear a new expression.
‘Justice to the dead first,’ he said; ’mercy to the living afterward.’
He wheeled his easy-chair to the table, trimmed the lamp, and settled himself to the examination of the books.” (Pg. 183)

While in some ways this novel hasn’t aged well, particularly with regards to women, at its core it remains surprisingly significant. No longer is the role of villain delegated solely to the physically unattractive, the less refined lower class, or the explicitly nonhuman. Combining the gorgeous gothic atmosphere of a classic monster story of old with a tense psychological mystery for the ages, Lady Audley’s Secret highlights the dangers of accepting charm and charisma at face value and the regrets of taking loved ones for granted, a powerful reminder to “keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from Lady Audley’s Secret by Mary Elizabeth Braddon (2003 broadview literary texts paperback edition; edited by Natalie M. Houston; published by Broadview Press Ltd.)

MAIN THEME:
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Once Upon a Time in Ireland: The Chronicles of Faerie

3/3/2023

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1993-2009, Ages 12 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tales of three girls and their personal journeys throughout the Faerie world within the heart of Ireland.
(3/3/23)

I once read the urban fantasy novel, Wicked Lovely, the first in the series of the same name by Melissa Marr. Let’s just say I found it . . . lacking. But I continued with the next book, Ink Exchange, thinking maybe the story would pick up then. If the first was a chore, then the second was an absolute endurance test. If there’s one YA trope that I have next to no patience for, it’s the angsty, tormented teen who stays angsty and tormented for the sake of looking “cool” and “sexy,” instead of using that angst in engaging or meaningful ways. It’s especially frustrating when said teens are magical creatures with such a powerful legacy in human history and so much storytelling potential: faeries. Just because you surround yourself with exotic birds and flora while wearing leather and jeans and “suffering” through teen drama doesn’t mean you’re an interesting character! But even though Wicked Lovely turned out wicked boring in my personal opinion, the experience did make me appreciate this contemporary faery fantasy series all the more.

Gwen Woods is a North American teen visiting her Irish cousin, Findabhair, for a summer of fun, albeit ordinary, adventures. Laurel Blackburn has become bitter and lost ever since the unexplained death of her twin sister, Honor. And Dana Faolan fears she will never find her long-lost mother before moving from Ireland to Canada with her single father, Gabriel. These girls have little in common, except for one fantastic thing: they are each about to embark on a journey through the wilds of Ireland into the fabled realm of Faerie, home to beautiful but unpredictable immortals, strange and wondrous creatures, and the precious hopes and dreams of all humanity. Gwen must rescue Findabhair when she is chosen to be the sacrifice in an ancient and deadly ritual; Laurel learns that the tragic history behind a faerie war now brewing may hold the truth behind Honor’s death; and Dana is promised her beloved mother in exchange for delivering an urgent message to the High King himself, while evading a dark entity who wants to stop her at all costs. And regardless of the ultimate fates of their individual quests, Gwen, Laurel, and Dana must later band together along with their human and faerie allies to mend the bridge connecting Earth and Faerie before both worlds are destroyed forever.

Irish born and Canadian raised, O.R. Melling (real name G.V. Whelan) nurtured a strong wanderlust during her own teen years, hitchhiking from Canada to California and then traveling to Malaysia and Borneo. Each book is like a personalized travel guide in that sense. The opening pages show a real-world map of the specific Irish and Canadian country sides each protagonist travels in, and closing glossaries explain the various foreign words used throughout. According to fantasy author Holly Black: “Melling describes Faerieland like she’s been there.” I couldn’t agree more. As a matter of fact, I’d say her knowledge of real-world Irish mythology is on par with that of British fantasy artist Brian Froud, whose admirable credits include conceptual work on the Jim Henson films, The Dark Crystal (1982) and Labyrinth (1986). Like him, she portrays faeries as the legendary children of nature they are: dignified but wild, obliging but volatile, ever hearing and healing the heart of the universe, but never bound by human standards of good and evil. One minute she’s comparing the graceful, passionate dancing of the Faerie King Finvarra to the sublime mysteries of new life and rebirth. The next she introduces a very jolly leprechaun driving a cab like a maniac during rush hour with The Dropkick Murphys’ “Rocky Road to Dublin” on full blast. (Just try to keep your face straight at that latter image; I still can’t!)

Another great aspect is the organic, matter-of-fact way Melling venerates the bond between the practical and tangible Earth and the wild and surreal Faerie. She emphasizes how even the most rational modern people still can and do believe in the soul-healing dreams and love of nature faeries inspire, while recognizing and respecting the ordinary mortal obligations that are also important in their own right and rewarding in their own way:

“‘What does Granny think of your work?’
‘She thinks it’s brilliant. I’ll be doing something I love. Business is booming with the new currency. Other Europeans can see what they’re getting for their money. The more we unite with—’
Dara’s excitement died when he caught Gwen’s look.
‘What on earth is wrong?’
With anyone else she might have hidden it, but with him she couldn’t lie or pretend.
‘It all sounds so . . . ordinary.’
Impatience flickered in his face, then he relented.
‘Ach, Gwen! Ireland isn’t a fairy tale of wishes and dreams. It’s a real place with real people in it. We have to make our living like everyone else in the world.’
‘But what about your kingship?’ she persisted. ‘And Faerie and the old ways and everything Granny knows?’
He shook his head.
‘Why does it always have to be either/or? Mundane or magic? Body or soul? I don’t put things into separate boxes. I live with all of it.’
Suddenly Gwen understood, not only him but herself as well. Here was her problem with the fairies in a nutshell. Either. Or. Practical reality. Airy Fairyland. She was the one who made them opposites, and then kept changing her mind about which she preferred. And here were Dara and Granny, comfortable with both, because they did not see the worlds as mutually exclusive.
The two continued up the mountain, talking about their lives, their families, their hopes for the future.” (Pg. 191-192, The Hunter’s Moon).

On that note, I would argue that Gwen, Laurel, and Dana face more than just the deadly splendor of faery magic. Through their adventures, readers explore different facets of the human condition according to the girls’ highly relatable personal goals and individual fears. Gwen, for instance, has always felt plain and timid compared to her bold and beautiful cousin, feelings exacerbated in the presence of the seemingly perfect Good People. She must find the courage to fight her insecurities not only for the sake of something greater than herself, but for her own self-respect:

“Courage is not a lack of fear. It is acting despite the fear.
The words whispered inside Gwen. Her soul fluttered like a bird in a cage, yearning to be free.
“Now she made a dash for the high-stepping mare with the golden-brown mane.
‘You are for me!’ she cried.
The horse reared up, but as soon as the hooves touched the earth again Gwen saw her chance. Leaping forward to grasp the mane, she flung a leg over the shining bare back. The mare bucked ferociously to toss her away. Half-up, half-down, Gwen flapped in midair like a paper bag in the wind. She gripped so tightly her knuckles went white. But she couldn’t keep her hold. The horse’s hair began to slip through her fingers. Straining, clutching, she strove to hang on.
To no avail. With a cry of anguish, she lost her grip and fell to the ground. She rolled out of control. By the time she came to a stop, flat on her back, she was bruised and battered.
Gwen choked back her tears as she stared up at the sky. She was utterly humiliated. There they were, far above her, the fairy troop on horseback, glittering in the night like a spray of stars. She would never forget the look in their eyes as they gazed down on her. So cool and distant. Such breathtaking indifference!
[. . .]
That’s when something snapped in Gwen.
'No!’ she cried after them. ‘Don’t go without me! Not again!’
She scrambled to her feet, looking around wildly. The golden-brown mare had not gone far and appeared to be grazing innocently. But Gwen could see the tension in her limbs.
‘You are for me!’ Gwen called again, gritting her teeth. ‘If it takes all night!’
Now she ran for the horse even as the mare prepared to bolt. Gwen was quicker, spurred by a furious need to rejoin the troop. Once more she leapt at the horse’s back to grasp the mane. Once more she dangled helplessly in midair. Once more she clung with all her might. The moment seemed to stretch into forever, an unrelenting eternity of cold wind, torn fingers, and battered body. But this time she refused to let go. This time she drew on the last ounce of her strength, the last breath in her lungs. She would not let go, even if it meant being trampled to death.
Sensing the iron will of her hapless rider, the fairy steed grew calm.
In that moment of sweet stillness Gwen righted herself. She patted the mare’s neck with relief and respect.
‘Thank you, lady,’ she whispered into an elegant ear.
The mare whinnied in response and flew into the sky.” (Pg. 78-80)

For Laurel, it’s a question of faith. She’s never believed in magic, dismissing it as nonsense and preferring sports and boys over books and nature. But as much as she scorns the idea of faeries, she must be willing to sacrifice her rationality if it could bring her twin home:

“The room was definitely too stuffy. Perhaps if she got up and opened a window? But she couldn’t move. Her body felt heavy, like a lump of lead. An inkling of terror crept through her. This wasn’t right. There was an outdoor smell in the room, wet soil and leaves and the night perfume of columbine. Her eyelids began to close. She forced them open. Though the fire was nearly out, red shadows were dancing over the bookshelves. The little man’s silhouette rose up behind him, large and vaguely menacing.
She opened her mouth to yell for help, but instead she yawned.
‘Ye’ve got to fight it,’ he said, and his tone was urgent. ‘The solace of sleep. ‘Tis your human nature. It wants ye to nod off so ye can tell yourself this is all a dream.’
He leaned toward her, eyes dark and glittering.
‘’Tis no dream, girseach, and ye’ve got to accept that. We can’t be about our business till ye do. Can I give ye a little hint o’ help? Something to get ye around that wall of logic that bricks in your brain?’
[. . .]
His tone was suddenly matter-of-fact.
‘Look, stick to the essentials and never mind the existentials. Forget all the palaver about fantasy and reality. Act as if ye believe and see what happens. Is that too much to ask?’
It wasn’t. In fact, the suggestion was so simple and pragmatic it appealed to her instantly. No need to wrestle with the bigger issues. Take it a step at a time. And Laurel wanted so much to believe. She knew the stakes. Either there were more things than she had ever dreamed of, or there was nothing beyond her own experience and philosophy. And if the latter were true, there was no hope for her. She would never, ever see her sister again.
‘I’ll try.’ Her tongue felt thick and furry. She had to force the words out. ‘I’ll act . . . as if . . . I believe.’
She had no sooner uttered the words than she began to feel better. The room came back into focus. Energy returned to her limbs. The little man himself looked more solid and even normal, as he rubbed his hands gleefully.
Laurel sat up straight, her mind clear.” (Pg. 45-47, The Summer King)

Dana hopes that in finding her mother, she will find not only the love but the identity she’s been missing. During her search, she comes to discover that her Irish roots run far deeper than she ever could have imagined, and with that discovery comes a sense of belonging she didn’t know she yearned for:

“[. . .] The wolf moved closer. ‘Do you not know yet?’
What a beautiful face, Dana thought. The sleek snout was that of a thoroughbred. The eyes were pure gold, and the ears, elegant. Despite her fear, Dana didn’t back away.
Again came the voice, as rich as wild honey.
‘Do you not know who I am?’
Dana felt a thrill at the core of her being, but her mouth was dry. She couldn’t speak.
The wolf’s eyes shone with a warm yellow light.
‘In the tongue of your ancestors, what is my name?’
After a moment’s confusion, Dana realized what she meant.
‘You are a faol.’
The wolf butted her gently.
‘Think, little cub. Why does the feeling of kinship conquer your fear?’
Dana caught her breath. A surge of joy rushed through her as she realized the truth.
‘I am a Faolán. I belong to you!’
The wolf growled her approval.
‘And I to you. For I am the totem of your tribe. The guardian of your clan.’
Dana understood. Didn’t her father often speak proudly of his roots? He had told her how, in the mists of time, the earliest peoples of Ireland were named for the animals from whom they believed they were descended. The oldest families still had those names, anglicized now as the Irish language declined. [. . .] All were Faoláns: of the Clan of the Wolf.” (Pg. 169-170, The Light-Bearer’s Daughter)

The Chronicles of Faerie is neither a cliched bedtime story of tiny winged people flitting on flowers nor a pretentious teen drama with cliques all the duller for being immortal. It is a tale of beings with personalities, traits, even flaws readers can understand even while they exercise the powers of gods. None of which overshadows Melling’s mortal characters, normal but likable girls with great powers of their own that they each come to realize: not only a mature courage and compassion but a pure wonder and open-mindedness that enables them to venture beyond their physical and spiritual comfort zones. Both a comprehensive crash-course in faerie lore and a romantic adventure spanning dimensions corporeal and otherwise, The Chronicles of Faerie invites us to discover the profound humanity hidden behind the veil of divine inhumanity.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from The Chronicles of Faerie: The Hunter’s Moon, The Summer King, and The Light-Bearer’s Daughter by O.R. Melling (2006-2007 paperback editions, published by Amulet Books, an imprint of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.)

MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

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The Greatest Dream on Earth: The Night Circus

11/4/2022

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2012, Ages 16 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of two young magicians pitted against each other in a perilous competition--with a circus as their arena.
(11/4/22)

November is an important month in the writing community, for it is National Novel Writing Month, better known as NaNoWriMo. The basic goal is to write or begin writing a 50,000-word manuscript within one month. What began as a small writing project in 1999 is now a full-fledged nonprofit organization designed to encourage creative writing and provide various resources for aspiring authors. Charitable work aside, I’m personally glad that the project’s timing was moved from July to November as writing is a good activity for not-so-good weather. This fantasy novel, completed by its author in a span of three NaNoWriMo’s, is likewise an excellent story to while away those dreary days of grey—or to complement them, as the case may be.

To the untrained eye, Le Cirque des Rêves—the Circus of Dreams—may be the most unusual circus ever to come to town. It has no schedule; is only open from sunset to sunrise; and, rather than the traditional kaleidoscope of color in one large tent, offers many small tents of black, white, and all non-colors in between. What few realize, however, is how magical it truly is. The circus, in reality, is the setting for a fantastic duel between two powerful prodigies: Celia Bowen, daughter of the arrogant stage magician Prospero the Enchanter, and Marco Alastair, the orphaned ward of the enigmatic man in the grey suit. Trained since childhood in the vastly different ways of their volatile masters, Celia and Marco pit their magical skills against one another under the guise of creating ever more elaborate delights to dazzle the paying public. But when the devoted rivals become star-crossed lovers, the resulting chain of events endangers patron and performer alike. Now Celia and Marco must find a way to end the increasingly deadly contest without destroying not only each other, but the innocent souls for whom the circus provides far more than mere entertainment.

“Fairytale for adults” is often the go-to description for darker, more mature works of fantasy. The Night Circus is no exception, but due to the constant evolution of fairytales, the term nowadays can mean quite literally anything. And yet, that very idea lays at the heart of this story; more specifically, the nature of dreams. I believe Morgenstern makes this very clear even through her narrative structure. The book is nonlinear and entirely in present tense, symbolizing a dream’s immediacy and freedom from the constraints of time. Chapters are written in 3rd person limited with brief 2nd person segments in between. Besides allowing readers to witness the circus through the myriad characters’ own eyes and experience it as patrons themselves, these choices in POV emulate a dream’s limitless potential as well as its lack of concrete form and definition.

The fairy tales of old weren’t known for being very complicated. Much of this book is the same way. It’s never explained how or why the main characters are capable of what is essentially sorcery, conjuring attractions like the Ice Garden and the Cloud Maze, which are just as literal as they are stunning. Many aspects like these are described in a way that expects the reader to accept them at face value—not unlike how we accept even the strangest dreams when we sleep. But Morgenstern maintains authentic complexity and intrigue with the tried-and-true approach of leaving certain things to the imagination and focusing instead on the reactions of those on the outside. These rêveurs (dreamers), as they call themselves, dress in black and white to blend in with the monochrome illusions, but with a dash of red as a symbol of their real human hearts. This is an attractive image that not only fits the Victorian setting, but distinguishes these patrons as individuals seeking camaraderie and purpose through the experiencing and sharing of dreams, as opposed to just obsessed fans. A prime example is Bailey Clarke, a lonely farm boy torn between personal happiness and familial loyalty. At the circus, he meets twin performers, Poppet and her brother Widget. Despite their uncanny precognitive abilities—or perhaps because of them—the empathetic and easygoing siblings (the lovely Poppet in particular) not only become the best friends Bailey’s ever had, but give him the courage and wisdom to forge his own future. (By the way: Bailey? Barnum and Bailey? Coincidence?):

‘‘‘So you see everything before it happens?’ Bailey asks. He is not sure Poppet’s answer is entirely what he expected, if he expected anything at all.
Poppet shakes her head.
‘No, not everything. Sometimes just bits of things like words and pictures in a book, but the book has lots of pages missing and it’s been dropped in a pond and some parts are blurry but other parts aren’t. Does that make sense?’ she asks.
‘Not really,’ Bailey answers.
Poppet laughs. ‘I know it’s strange,’ she says.
‘No, it’s not,’ Bailey says. Poppet turns to look at him, the skepticism at the statement evident on her face. ‘Well, yes, it is kind of strange. But just odd strange, not bad strange.’
‘Thank you, Bailey,’ Poppet says.

[. . .]

It seems a lifetime ago that he walked to the circus, though it was only a few hours. And more than that, it feels as though the Bailey who entered the circus was an entirely different person than the one leaving it now, with a silver ticket in his pocket. He wonders which is the real Bailey, for certainly the Bailey who spent hours in trees alone is not the Bailey who is granted special admission to a spectacular circus, who makes friends with such interesting people without even trying.
By the time he reaches the farm, he is sure that the Bailey he is now is closer to the Bailey he is supposed to be than the Bailey he had been the day before. He may not be certain what any of it means, but for now he does not think that it much matters.
In his dreams, he is a knight on horseback, carrying a silver sword, and it does not really seem that strange after all.” (Pg. 268-269)

And yet this endeavor is anything but a fairy tale to our main protagonists, whose upbringings, though literally enchanted, more resemble, respectively, those of Cinderella at the mercy of her Evil Stepmother and Rapunzel isolated in her tower. Prospero’s cruel training—which includes physically abusing Celia so she can practice healing her wounds with magic—strengthens her will as well as her power, but also leaves her heartbroken and bitter. Marco is given almost no guidance or context in his lessons by his less detestable but more detached master—being expected to learn for himself when outside but otherwise left home to study on his own—resulting in a cold and empty existence. This makes their private meetings as adults all the more satisfying, because of the subtle defiance they show via the attractions they create as the most romantic gifts with the very same powers they are supposed to be using against each other:

“The striped canvas sides of the tent stiffen, the soft surface hardening as the fabric changes to paper. Words appear over the walls, typeset letters overlapping handwritten text. Celia can make out snatches of Shakespearean sonnets and fragments of hymns to Greek goddesses as the poetry fills the tent. It covers the walls and the ceiling and spreads out over the floor.
And then the tent begins to open, the paper folding and tearing. The black stripes stretch out into empty space as their white counterparts brighten, reaching upward and breaking apart into branches.
‘Do you like it?’ Marco asks, once the movement settles and they stand within a darkened forest of softly glowing, poem-covered trees.
Celia can only nod.
He reluctantly releases her, following as she walks through the trees, reading bits of verse on branches and trunks.
‘How do you come up with such images?’ she asks, placing her hand over the layered paper bark of one of the trees. It is warm and solid beneath her fingers, illuminated from within like a lantern.
‘I see things in my mind,’ Marco says. ‘In my dreams. I imagine what you might like.’
‘I don’t think you’re meant to be imagining how to please your opponent,’ Celia says.
‘I have never fully grasped the rules of the game, so I am following my instincts instead,’ Marco says.

[. . .]

He turns to the crimson tree and it glows brighter, the red of embers shifting to the bright warmth of fire.
The surrounding trees follow suit.
As the light from the trees increases, it becomes so bright that Celia closes her eyes.
The ground beneath her feet shifts, suddenly unsteady, but Marco puts a hand on her waist to keep her upright.
When she opens her eyes, they are standing on the quarterdeck of a ship in the middle of the ocean.
Only the ship is made of books, its sails thousands of overlapping pages, and the sea it floats upon is dark black ink. Tiny lights hang across the sky, like tightly packed stars bright as sun.
‘I thought something vast would be nice after all the talk of confined spaces,’ Marco says.
Celia walks to the edge of the deck, running her hands along the spines of the books that form the rail. A soft breeze plays with her hair, bringing with it the mingling scent of dusty tomes and damp, rich ink.
Marco comes and stands next to her as she looks at the midnight sea that stretches out into a clear horizon with no land in sight.” (Pg. 343-348)

Part of what makes Celia and Marco’s relationship so tragic is the fact that they are inextricably bound by magic to compete whether they want to or not, and in that way, must remain together without ever truly being able to be together. Nor are they the only ones paying the price. They’ve developed a bond with the professionals without whom the circus would never have become the success it is, a strong affection that the unfeeling Prospero and man in the grey suit neither understand nor care about. The knowledge that they all have essentially been toying with the lives of them and other outsiders blissfully unaware of the circus’ origin and true agenda weighs heavily on the couple’s consciences. It is their human love and desire to use their powers to end such cruelty without ending the innocent joy of the circus itself that lends them a true godlike quality:

“THEY WALK THROUGH the moonlit ballroom, their steps echoing together.
‘How is Chandresh?’ Celia asks, attempting to find a subject to fill the silence, anything to distract herself from her still-shaking hands, and remembering the fallen glass at dinner.
‘He wavers,’ Marco says with a sigh. ‘Ever since the circus opened, he has been increasingly unfocused. I . . . I do what I can to keep him steady, though I fear it has an adverse effect on his memory. I had not intended to, but after what happened with the late Miss Burgess I thought it the wisest course of action.’
‘She was in the peculiar position of being involved in all this but not within the circus itself,’ Celia says. ‘I am sure it is not the easiest perspective to manage. At least you can observe Chandresh.’
‘Indeed,’ Marco says. ‘I do wish there was a way to protect those outside the circus the way the bonfire protects those within it.’
‘The bonfire?’ Celia asks.
‘It serves several purposes. Primarily, it is my connection to the circus, but it also functions as a safeguard of a sort. I neglected the fact that it does not cover those outside the fence.’
‘I neglected even considering safeguards,’ Celia says. ‘I do not think I understood at first how many other people would become involved in our challenge.’ She stops walking, standing in the middle of the ballroom.
Marco stops as well but says nothing, waiting for her to speak.
‘It was not your fault,’ she says quietly. ‘What happened to Tara. The circumstances may have played out the same way regardless of anything you or I did. You cannot take away anyone’s own free will, that was one of my very first lessons.’
Marco nods, and then he takes a step closer to her. He reaches out to take her hand, slowly brushing his fingers against hers.
The feeling is as strong as it had been when he touched her before, but something is different. The air changes, but the chandeliers hanging above them remain steady and still.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks.
‘You mentioned something about energy,’ Marco says. ‘I’m focusing yours with mine, so you won’t break the chandeliers.’
‘If I broke anything, I could probably fix it,’ Celia says, but she does not let go.
Without the concern for the effect she might be having on the surroundings, she is able to relax into the sensation instead of resisting it. It is exquisite. It is the way she has felt in so many of his tents, the thrill of being surrounded by something wondrous and fantastical, only magnified and focused directly on her. The feel of his skin against hers reverberates across her entire body, though his fingers remain entwined in hers. She looks up at him, caught in the haunting greenish-grey of his eyes again, and she does not turn away.
They stand gazing at each other in silence for moments that seem to stretch for hours.” (Pg. 291-293)

The fact that I will never have the time or patience to write under the rules of NaNoWriMo solidifies my respect for those who not only try it, but succeed in it, especially when it results in a book of this caliber. The Night Circus takes full advantage of mankind’s fascination with the nocturnal to weave a dazzling magical romance that doubles as a captivating character study of humanity through dreams and provides an escape which adult readers from all walks of life can run away and join any evening of the week.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern (First Anchor Books paperback edition, July 2012; published by Anchor Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto).

MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

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EPISODE SONGS:
“Tents At Midnight” - George Ellsworth

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A Small Fortune: Where the Mountain Meets the Moon

3/4/2022

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2011, Ages 8 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of a little Chinese girl who learns the power of storytelling on her quest to bring good fortune to her poor village.
(3/4/22)

It’s not only because I enjoy stories as both an academic subject and a relaxing pastime that my frustration boils whenever I hear about schools cutting arts and music courses due to budget constraints. Bad enough such a move takes away opportunities to express oneself and to explore and/or challenge the real world through a more universal and imaginative lens. It implies that, on a professional, economic, and educational level, creative endeavors have less value and importance than practical skills—a sentiment I consider offensive as well as unhealthy because I can say from years’ worth of personal experience that cold, hard facts and figures alone do not ensure real-world survival. It’s been said that folktales are often based on some actual truth. That I do firmly believe. I also believe that such stories can even be prophesies in disguise, which, if taken to heart, can lead to life-changing miracles.

For as long as little Minli can remember, Fruitless Mountain is a name that has suited her home well. Each and every day, she, her parents, and her fellow villagers trudge and toil through mud and rock just coax even the most meager grains of rice from the lifeless land, breaking their bodies and their spirits. Her only respite comes from the stories of enchantment and adventure her beloved father tells in the evening, despite her mother’s bitter disapproval of such impractical things. But one night, in return for a kindness rendered to a talking goldfish, Minli learns of the Old Man of the Moon, a mysterious being said to know the answer to every question in the world. And so, with the help of the many magical friends she meets and the many more fantastic tales they have to tell, Minli sets out to learn how to bring the fruit back to Fruitless Mountain and change the fortune of her loved ones for the better.

In spite of everything I said before, I do understand that even the most beautiful and meaningful stories are powerless if their young audience has no interest in listening. This is a sentiment author Grace Lin, a Taiwanese-American, shares in the “Behind the Story” section at the back of the book:

“I grew up as the only Asian in my elementary school classroom and one of the few minorities in my town (very much how it is written in my book The Year of the Dog). By the time I was eleven, I had fully disregarded my Asian heritage. My wise mother, knowing that any type of forced cultural exposure would lead to scorn, silently left half a dozen Chinese folktale and fairy tale books on the shelf. Unable to resist the pull of new books, I very quietly began to read them.
At first I was disappointed. The translation from Chinese to English had left the stories completely thin and at times rough and hard to understand. There were hardly any details or descriptions, and the black-and-white illustrations were simple line drawings, a far cry from the lush paintings in my books of European fairy tales. I thought these Chinese stories had not made an impression on me.
But I was wrong. As I grew older, I began to regret my childhood disinterest in my heritage. I visited Hong Kong, Taiwan, and China, and suddenly, those stories came flooding back to me. In the land and architecture around me, the Chinese fairy tales seemed to come alive. Everything I saw brought back memories of those stories.”

As readers see via beautiful photos of her travels in Asia, Lin’s desire to reconnect with her roots comes to life through her gorgeous full color illustrations. I think that for her to have done them in black-and-white would have done her book a terrible disservice. Not only would such a choice have dimmed the beauty of the story itself, but readers would have been denied a taste of the vivid aesthetic of China. Her drawings have a calligraphic appearance, with graceful curves and refined angles, elegantly simple and yet richly detailed. For example, a photo of the Humble Administrator’s Garden, a popular attraction in Suzhou (near Shanghai), was the basis and backdrop for the Palace Garden in the City of Bright Moonlight, in which Minli visits with the mysterious but kindly king, a full moon beautifully reflected in the leaf-laden pond.

It is possible to enjoy this book even if you’re not well versed in traditional Asian folktales, like, admittedly, myself. That said, there are specific narrative elements I do recognize, which add some gratifying resonance to the reading. Early on, Minli befriends a Chinese dragon who is actually a painting come to life. I was reminded of the Animated Tales of the World episode, “The Magic Paintbrush,” a Chinese folktale in which a boy uses said brush to bring literal life to his own art. At another point, Minli and Dragon must find a way past a bunch of greedy peach-hoarding monkeys. Here, I can’t help but think of Sun Wukong, a.k.a. The Monkey King, a central character in the 16th-century Chinese novel, Journey to the West. There is one similar story that English-speakers will be very familiar with: L. Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz. Besides the brave little girl journeying from her dull, grey home into a whimsical world of color and self-discovery, you have friendly magical creatures the girl never dreamed existed, one of whom also becomes her traveling companion. I’d have to say that Dragon most closely resembles the Scarecrow. He goes by the name of what he actually is and was technically created, not born. He also must be set free (having been tied up by the monkeys) when Minli first meets him and is convinced by her that his own problem—being unable to fly—could possibly be solved if he joins her to see an omniscient being of great power. He humbly claims not to be as worldly-wise as his human friend, but his kindness, not his knowledge, is what she truly cares about:

“‘Why do you have to go through the forest?’ Minli asked. ‘Can’t you just fly over?’
More tears, the size of lychee nuts, rolled down the dragon’s face.
‘I cannot fly,’ he sobbed. ‘I do not know why. All other dragons can fly. But I cannot. I wish I knew why.’
‘Don’t cry,’ Minli said, patting the dragon, feeling more sorry for it than ever. ‘I’m going to Never-Ending Mountain to see the Old Man of the Moon and ask him how to change my family’s fortune. You can come too and ask him how to fly.’
‘You know where Never-Ending Mountain is?’ the dragon asked. ‘I thought to see the Old Man of the Moon was impossible. You must be very wise to know how to find him.’
‘Not really,’ Minli said, ‘I got the directions from a goldfish.’ (Pg.48-49)

               [. . .]

‘So you were born from a painting!’ Minli said, ‘That explains why you are so different from the dragons my father told me about.’
‘Your father knew other dragons?’ the dragon asked eagerly. ‘I have never seen another dragon. I always thought if I could fly, I would finally see another like me.’
‘Um, well,’ Minli said, ‘I don’t think my father ever knew any dragons. He just told stories about them. Most people think dragons are just in stories. You are the only dragon I’ve ever met.’
‘Oh,’ the dragon said sadly, ‘and I am not even a real dragon.’
All this time, Minli had been cutting the twine ropes. At that very moment, Minli cut the last rope and rubbed the dragon’s arm. ‘You’re the only dragon I’ve ever met in real life,’ she said, ‘and you feel real to me. So, I think you’re a real dragon. Or, at least, real enough. Anyway, if we’re going to Never-Ending Mountain together, let’s at least be real friends.’
‘Yes,’ Dragon agreed, and they both smiled.” (Pg. 58-59)

But it’s the side characters’ own stories that really inspire—and would make a wonderful fairytale collection in its own right. Initially, as much as Minli loves her father’s stories with all her heart, they are also a source of guilt for her as they cause friction between her and her well-meaning but bitter mother, who constantly complains about their poverty and sees stories as worthless:

“‘So the Old Man of the Moon was right!’ Minli said.
‘Of course he was,’ Ba replied. ‘The Old Man of the Moon knows everything and can answer any question you ask.’
‘I should ask him how to bring fortune to our house!’ Minli said. ‘He would know, I’ll ask him. Where do I find him?’
‘They say he lives on top of Never-Ending Mountain,’ Ba said. ‘But no one I have ever spoken to knows where that is.’
‘Maybe we can find out,’ Minli said.
‘Oh, Minli!’ Ma said impatiently. ‘Bringing fortune to our house! Making Fruitless Mountain bloom! You’re always wishing to do impossible things! Stop believing stories and stop wasting your time.’
‘Stories are not a waste of time,’ Ba said.
‘Stories,’ Ma said, slapping her hands against the table, making the water in the fishbowl sway as she stood up and left the table, ‘are what wasted money on this goldfish.’
Minli stared down at her rice bowl; the few white grains left sat like precious pearls at the bottom of her bowl. Ba patted her arm. ‘Eat all your rice, Daughter,’ he said, and with his shaking hands, he scooped the last of his own rice to feed the fish.” (Pg. 24-25)

As Minli’s quest progresses, however, the tales of those she meets prove to be increasingly important. One may present a riddle or mystery, like that of the Village of the Moon Rain, for instance, which is solved by a different one later. Besides creatively fleshing out their respective narrators, they show how each of them are connected to one another, regardless of their walk of life, whether they themselves realize it or not. There’s something else that makes these stories especially unique. Each of these short, self-contained chronicles has a stylized title bordered by simple but lovely oriental designs. For each text, the traditional and rigid Times New Roman is traded for a more fluid and artistic font (I unfortunately wasn’t able to determine which). These clever touches in the pages’ visual presentation tell readers they are about to enter another world and witness a new wonder even before the recitation begins:

               “And as they approached the spot, Minli realized that the yellow was flowers—in front of them was land full of blooming trees. The trees were heavy with bright blossoms and as the wind blew through the branches, golden flowers showered down like rain.

[. . .]

               ‘That’s our home,’ he told her, ‘the Village of the Moon Rain.’
               ‘Village of the Moon Rain?’ Minli asked. ‘That’s a strange name. Why isn’t your village named after the flowering trees?’
               ‘It is,’ Da-Fu said.

  THE STORY OF THE
VILLAGE OF
THE MOON RAIN

               Over a hundred years ago, when our ancestors were first brought here, the land of the village was barren and gray. Everything was dull and colorless, the wind cold and bitter. Still, our ancestors worked hard. They built houses out of the mountain stone, sewed warm, wadded-cotton jackets, and planted seeds in the hard dirt.
               But, despite their efforts, the land refused to bear a single plant or flower. However, even though it looked hopeless, our ancestors continued to work.
               Then one night, when the moon was big and round, the air filled with a strange fluttering sound. Our ancestors thought a great storm was coming and rushed inside.
               And a great storm was coming. With a crash, raindrops seemed to fall from the sky.
               But what a strange rain it was! Round and smooth, in the glowing light the raindrops looked like silver pearls! And when they touched the ground, they disappeared.
               ‘It’s raining pearls!’ our ancestors said to each other. ‘Jewels from the moon!’ And they rushed out with baskets and bags, catching what they could from this strange storm. Magically, when the raindrops were caught, they didn’t disappear; and soon their baskets and bags were full.
               But in the morning, our ancestors saw that the drops were not pearls or jewels. In the sunlight, they saw that they were really seeds. But no one knew what kind of seeds they were. Curious, they planted them in the hard earth.
               And when the moon rose again that night, the strange rain fell again as well. This time our ancestors were not fooled and just watched the drops disappear into the ground. But in the morning, the planted seeds were sprouting as if watered by a magic brew.
               So night after night the seed rain fell from the sky. And as daylight broke over the land, the seedlings grew higher. Soon they grew into beautiful silver trees with golden flowers. They were so beautiful, our ancestors planted more and more seeds and soon the whole village was blooming with hundreds and hundreds of flowering trees.
               And since then our home has been called the Village of the Moon Rain. We plant new seeds every day, and every night, the moon rain falls and every morning a new seedling sprouts. Maybe in another hundred years all this stony land will be covered with trees and the mountain will be as golden as the Moon.” (Pg. 183-187)

Sometimes it’s only later in life that one comes to appreciate the tales that had not only shaped one’s outlook, but helped to establish one’s roots and sense of identity in a world so often dreary and chaotic. What began as a storyteller’s way to explore and pay homage to her ancestral past blossomed into a stunning adventure for young readers all the more magical for being inspired by a celebrated real-world culture. Like the celestial body in its title, Where the Mountain Meets the Moon is sure to brighten the imagination and shed light on stories not as far beyond the realm of possibility as they may appear.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from Where the Mountain Meets the Moon by Grace Lin (2009 paperback edition, published by Little, Brown and Company, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.)

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Mwari in Metropolis: The Ear, the Eye and the Arm

3/5/2021

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1994, Ages 10 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of three mutant detectives called upon to rescue a powerful general’s kidnapped children.
(3/5/21)

Human ingenuity has served us well over the centuries. Advances in technology have offered a plethora of new frontiers for us to explore, the means with which to ensure our survival, and the ability to discover and create wonders unlike anything seen in antiquity. However, many would argue that all this comes at the great cost of cultural, religious, and individual identity. At what point does technological progress become destructive to the natural order of life? At what point does clinging to ancestral traditions become detrimental to physical health and social and emotional development? Can a balance between past and future be struck? If so, how? It’s hard enough for adults to answer these questions, much less children, especially those hailing from places which embrace the technology of today, but whose ethnic and theological roots date back thousands of years. Case in point: a country as ancient as Africa, in a time as radical as the turn of the 23rd century.

The streets of 2194 Zimbabwe are infested with crime and ruled by merciless gangs ravenous for money and blood— something General Amadeus Matsika knows all too well. But he rules his household with the same iron fist he does his military forces—something his thirteen-year-old son, Tendai, knows all too well. Tired of his father’s constant criticism and stifling home-school regime, Tendai, along with his impulsive little sister, Rita, and carefree little brother, Kuda, sneak away from their fortified mansion to explore the city streets in freedom, only to be kidnapped by the henchmen of the greedy child trafficker, the She-Elephant. When the police are stymied, the General tries a different tactic—emphasis on the word different. Enter Africa’s three finest, and strangest, detectives: Ear, Eye, and Arm, so named due to nuclear waste heightening their respective physical senses to superhuman levels. And so the trio of mutant sleuths set out to find and rescue the Matsika children, not only from the common (and not-so-common) criminals who would hold them for ransom, but also the Masks, the deadliest gang in Zimbabwe, who have their own far more sinister plans for them.

Though not the only book I’ve read that highlights African tradition, this is the first I’ve read that falls under the category of Afrofuturism, a sub-genre of science fiction and an artistic movement which incorporates elements and aesthetics of African diaspora culture in themes of science and technology. Farmer, a U.S. citizen born in Phoenix, Arizona in 1941, worked in Mozambique and Rhodesia (present-day Zimbabwe) upon enlisting in the Peace Corps in 1963. Within the fast-paced thrills of her futuristic world, complete with flying cars, laser guns, and robots, she weaves a comprehensive but manageable crash course on African history and culture. Names and vocabulary terms are italicized throughout the text and there is a glossary at the end of the book to define them more clearly. Farmer also includes an appendix in which real-world customs, beliefs, events, and even the myriad tribes of Africa touched upon in the story are explained more in depth for any curious readers.

Ironically and sadly, all Tendai, Rita, and Kuda know of their country is what they’ve been taught from books and tutors, with no hands-on experience whatsoever beyond the security of their house. Their father even mentions at one point that they’ve never ridden on a bus before! In the outside world, the three are practically tourists themselves in their own native Africa. Almost everything they see in the markets, from the traditional wares to the hi-tech, though shady merchandise, is as exotic to them as it is to us:

  “Long sunshades covered the various markets. Each street was devoted to a different product: fruits, vegetables, clothes, crockery and soap. Meat sellers slapped sides of beef to dislodge flies and show off their wares. Ngangas squatted before heaps of roots and herbs. They wore feathered caps banded with wildcat fur and smoked long pipes as they dozed in the heat. There were even a few public Mellowers.

Each Praise Singer had his own booth with a comfortable couch. When someone felt depressed and needed a quick Praise, he gave the Mellower a brief rundown of his best points. The person would lie down on the couch while the Praise Singer created a poem about him.

[. . .]

[Tendai] realized he was happy, and he hadn’t known he was sad before. He liked the noise and the smells, both good and bad, and the faces, both innocent and crafty. He liked being surrounded by people. He liked them all in their shapes and dispositions simply because they were people and not machines.
‘Look,’ cried Kuda. They were walking along the animal pens. Vendors haggled over goats and chickens. Fancy show cats yawned contemptuously at the crowds that milled around them. But on a table at the end, all by itself, sat a most amazing creature.
It was blue. Its fur stood out in a handsome ruff around its face, and its tail hung down almost to the ground. It wore a leather collar attached to a chain. Its owner, who had a surprising number of bandages on various parts of his body, sat glumly in a chair and smoked a cigarette.
‘That’s a genetically engineered monkey,’ said Tendai in wonder.
‘I thought they were illegal,’ Rita said.
‘They are.’
The Blue Monkey reached out a long arm and snatched the cigarette from its owner’s mouth. The man tried to retrieve it, but the monkey bared its teeth at him. It calmly began to puff on the cigarette itself. ‘What are you staring at, roach face?’ it snarled.
‘It talks!’ Rita cried.
‘Of course I do, when I have someone worth talking to. Not him.’ The Blue Monkey spat in the direction of its owner. Two other men had stopped at the table. One of them flicked a peanut at the animal.
‘When I want a peanut, I’ll go to the market and buy one!’ shouted the monkey in a rage. ‘Get me a hamburger, you tightwads!’ The men laughed.” (Pg. 32-33)

This is also the only relatively mature novel I know of whose author—a Caucasian—not only portrays the beauty and dignity of this ethnic group in a comprehensive and fascinating way, but does so without resorting to the tragic theme of racism, which I have to say is quite refreshing. If there is one mature subject this story does explore, though, it is social class. The kids experience the more impoverished side of the city first-hand, but their parents are forced in their own way to see it as well. When they meet Ear, Eye, and Arm for the first time, it’s not only the trio’s bizarre outward appearances that catch them off guard. Mother begins to realize just how ignorant she is regarding the less privileged, while the General gets his first lesson in how looks aren’t everything when it comes to strength:

“Eye removed his dark glasses, and Ear took off his muffs. The three men stood in front of Mother and let her take a long look. Ear, who was white, unfolded his ears. They opened out like huge flowers, pink and almost transparent. Eye, who was brown, blinked his huge eyes, which were all pupil inside and no white. Arm, who could just as well have been called Leg, stretched out his long black limbs. He reminded Mother of a wall spider.
‘How—how did it happen?’ she asked.
Arm replied, ‘We all come from the village of Hwange, near the nuclear power plant.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mother. ‘That’s where the plutonium got into the drinking water.’
‘Our mothers drank it.’
Mother stared at them. She knew about the accident, of course, in a distant sort of way. A few people died. Others got sick, but it had happened long ago. What must it have been like to have such babies? Hers had been so beautiful.
‘Our parents were delighted when they found out what we could do,’ said Eye, blinking in a slow, unnerving way. ‘I could see a flea clinging to a hawk’s feathers. My mother never lost anything.’
‘I could hear an ant creeping up on a sugar bowl,’ boasted Ear.
‘And what could you do?’ said Mother, bewildered by these strange creatures.
‘I got hunches,’ Arm said. ‘I used to know when the baboons were planning to raid the fields. So you see, we were ideally suited to be detectives.’
‘Who are these people?’ growled Father from the doorway. Ear closed his ears at once. Arm staggered back as though struck.
    ‘Detectives,’ Mother replied. ‘They’re going to look for the children.’
‘Humph.’ Father stalked around Ear, Eye and Arm, looking them over. ‘They wouldn’t get into the army,’ he concluded.
‘They have special abilities.’ Mother hastily explained what these were.
‘Humph,’ said Father. Only Mother could tell the difference between the two humphs. The second meant he was actively interested in the men and was considering using their services. ‘You’re hired,’ he said abruptly. Then he quickly produced pictures of the children, credit cards, maps of the city with phone numbers of the police stations, his own private number to be used day or night and a great deal of advice.
Almost before they knew it, Ear, Eye and Arm were handed their Nirvana guns and herded back to the limo. ‘Use the bus for business,’ Father said. ‘You’d scare witnesses away with the limo. Report to me six times a day. Good luck.’ He shook hands with each detective but paused and raised his eyebrows when he touched Arm.

[. . .]

‘That Arm has the funniest handshake,’ said Father, watching the shadows creep across the grass. ‘He’s stronger than he looks, too.’” (pg. 49-51)

As exciting and fantastic as Farmer’s descriptions are, they are not overly romantic. At one point, the kids find themselves in Resthaven, a village deliberately cut off from the modern world in order to “preserve the spirit of Africa.” (pg. 147) Farmer could have easily fallen back on the attractive “noble savage” cliché here, showing off the strong, handsome inhabitants living off the land and treasuring the ancestral customs, in contrast to the supposed ugly, lazy, selfish jerks of the cold, dirty city. But to her credit, she isn’t afraid to show both sides of both coins. The people of Resthaven are also male-dominant to the point of misogyny and superstitious to the point of murder. Or so the kids see it. Farmer is always careful to remain objective in her informative narration, even when her characters are anything but:

“‘They think twins are caused by witchcraft [,” said Rita. “] There’s a good twin and an evil one they have to get rid of. The midwives decided to take the boy out to Garikayi and leave the girl alone with a midwife. You understand?’
Tendai did.
‘I heard them say it was important for the baby to be quiet. If she cried, everyone would know she existed. They couldn’t pretend she was stillborn.’
‘But everyone knew,’ said Tendai.
‘Of course.’ Rita shivered again. [. . .] ‘It’s like the hamburgers we eat at home,’ she explained. ‘We know a cow died to provide them, but we don’t like to think about it. We pretend they come out of the pantry. Well, the villagers pretend the evil baby was born dead.’ She yawned. Her speech was getting slurred.
‘How did you save it?’ urged Tendai.
‘They all went out except Chipo, who was too weak to stand, and one old woman. She got a handful of ashes to fill the baby’s mouth.’
‘Maiwee!’
‘I bopped her on the head with a pot, grabbed the baby and pinched her. She howled then all right. They couldn’t pretend she wasn’t alive.’ [. . .]

   [. . .]

[. . .] [The] door opened and Myanda came in. She inspected Rita before sitting down.
‘We have to talk,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I don’t know why I’m bothering to do this. You certainly don’t deserve any help.’
Tendai didn’t say he was sorry. He wasn’t.

[. . .]

‘You don’t know what a serious mistake Rita made.’
‘In the city we think killing babies is a mistake,’ Tendai said.
‘In the city they kill babies all the time with poverty and crime. You’re so stupid! You haven’t been here two weeks and already you dare to judge us. Resthaven is a living culture. You can’t pick out the bits you like and throw away the rest. It all works together.’
Tendai turned his back. He didn’t even try to be polite. Myanda spun him around with her big hands. ‘Listen to me, you fool! I know what it’s like outside the wall. I was born there.

[. . .]

‘Almost no one is allowed into Resthaven, but I made it because I understood what it meant. It’s whole in a way the city never is.’
Tendai nodded, remembering the storytelling at the dare and the feeling of righteousness about the wood smoke. He remembered being carried home in triumph after the fight with Head Buster.
‘You can’t yank out part of the pattern and not damage the rest,’ said Myanda.
‘Even the part about killing babies?’
‘Even that.’” (pg. 156-159)

Many of the finest fictional stories are those which paint an authentic picture of a real live place for its made-up characters to inhabit. But to make that picture as engaging as those characters and their adventures: that is truly an art and a skill. The Ear, the Eye and the Arm offers plenty of alien-like creatures, impossible wonders, and hi-tech fare to satisfy any sci-fi fan, but it never loses touch with the rich and vibrant heritage of the country they and the more normal individuals call home. Yet as academic as it gets, Farmer’s novel still feels very human. With each immediate danger they face and every way of life they are exposed to, its protagonists—young and old, ordinary and extraordinary—, take the time to question their own previously-held beliefs and learn when to respect the beliefs of others, whether to challenge them, and how they all have to power to shape life itself. For while there is no such place as utopia, the world, when seen in the right light, can be just as incredible.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from The Ear, the Eye and the Arm by Nancy Farmer (2002 edition published by Firebird, an imprint of Penguin Putnam Books)

MAIN THEME:
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A Semi-Sweet Second Helping: Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator

7/3/2020

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1972, Ages 8 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of the boy whose crazy adventures just keep on coming after he inherits the most magical factory in the world.
(7/3/20)

Though there are exceptions to the rule, sequels have a really bad habit of making audiences roll their eyes, foam at the mouth, or heave a brokenhearted sigh. Some relish the chance to revisit their favorite characters and join them on new adventures, while others would rather cherish the memories they already have and not risk tarnishing them. But in this case, I think the problem lays not in that the sequel is necessarily bad, but that its predecessor is just too good. First published all the way back in 1964, the original has since been adapted to film no less than three times (in ’71, ’05, and ’17) and has its own video games, musicals, and even an opera! Even more amazing, one of its main characters has become so synonymous with chocolate and madness—always a dangerous combination, no matter how you slice it—that it even inspired an entire candy brand for real-life confectionery corporation, Nestlé! How in that name of all that is scrumdiddlyumptious can a sequel top that? Well . . . it doesn’t. But that’s not to say it doesn’t have its own sweet, far-out charm!

Little Charlie Bucket thought all his dreams had come true when he was invited to visit the amazing factory of the marvelously mad chocolatier, Mr. Willy Wonka, and learn the incredible candy-making secrets within. But the aftermath has turned out to be far more wonderful than he ever could have imagined. Now officially Mr. Wonka’s successor, Charlie is on his way to his new home at the chocolate factory along with his large, tight-knit family: his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Bucket, and his grandparents, Grandpa Joe and the perpetually bed-ridden Grandma Josephine, Grandpa George, and Grandma Georgia. Off they blast in Mr. Wonka’s Great Glass Elevator toward the factory. But an ill-timed mishap instead sends them all hurtling into orbit! Now the unlikely space crew must face off against dimwitted astronauts, paranoid politicians, and the terrifying man-eating aliens, the Vermicious Knids, all within a flying space hotel! All in a day’s work for Charlie and Mr. Wonka, of course. The next order of business upon their death-defying return? Getting the three cranky grandparents out of bed, with the aid of Mr. Wonka’s latest magical concoction, Wonka-Vite. But when a massive overdose results in this absurdly simple task going even more absurdly awry, it’s up to Charlie and Mr. Wonka to save the day once again!

To answer your question: no, this is not another author’s continuation of a classic story. This is, in fact, the official sequel to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, written by Roald Dahl himself. Fun fact: he had actually planned to make the Charlie/Wonka stories into a trilogy. He wrote only a single chapter of the planned third book, Charlie in the White House, which can now be found on display at the Roald Dahl Museum and Story Centre in England.

As I touched on before, I won’t pretend that this is a superior follow-up, or even one of Dahl’s better children’s books, in my opinion. Having re-read it as an adult and looking through reviews on Barnes & Noble and Amazon, I can see why people seem to be particularly divisive about it. Among others, various judgements include “fantastic,” “boring,” and “Um . . . what the heck did I just read?” I think this comes not so much from writing quality as reader subjectivity. For example, literally the first half of the story takes place in outer space and we only get to the chocolate factory much later. A downside of this is that readers unfortunately don’t get to explore as much of the latter, or its bizarre, colorful rooms and their edible wonders. On the other hand, this does allow for a more seamless and focused plot. The first book is very episodic in format, jumping from enchanted candy and one nasty Golden Ticket winner and their literal just desserts to another in rapid succession. Here, as the plot is basically comprised of only two main episodes, the segues are much smoother, and we get more development of characters who may not have gotten a lot of page time before, namely the Bucket family, as well as a deeper look into the friendship between Charlie and Mr. Wonka.

Wonka is as wonderfully eccentric as ever, with his “never say die” attitude and convenient “deafness” for every trivial question, not to mention his brilliantly nonsensical Carroll-esque one-liners. This is also why I prefer Gene Wilder’s movie performance of Wonka over Johnny Depp’s. He nailed the book’s character as a fun mix of whimsical, optimistic child-at-heart and wise, enigmatic wizard, as opposed to a creepy, unhinged weirdo with severe Peter Pan Syndrome. Charlie, though very likeable, brave, and open-minded, admittedly doesn’t stand out as much as a character this time around. That being said, he does continue to serve as a vital link not only between readers and the story’s fanciful dream world, but also between the reality that normal people would cling to and the magic and adventure that said people, especially adults, would otherwise miss out on due to ignorance or fear:

“‘What in the world keeps this thing up in the air?’ croaked Grandma Josephine.
‘Skyhooks,’ said Mr. Wonka.
‘You amaze me,’ said Grandma Josephine.
‘Dear lady,’ said Mr. Wonka, ‘you are new to the scene. When you have been with us a little longer, nothing will amaze you.’
‘These skyhooks,’ said Grandma Josephine. ‘I assume one end is hooked onto this contraption we’re riding in. Right?’
‘Right,’ said Mr. Wonka.
‘What’s the other end hooked onto?’ said Grandma Josephine.
‘Every day,’ said Mr. Wonka, ‘I get deafer and deafer. Remind me, please, to call up my ear doctor the moment we get back.’
‘Charlie,’ said Grandma Josephine. ‘I don’t think I trust this gentleman very much.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Grandma Georgina. ‘He footles around.’
Charlie leaned over the bed and whispered to the two old women. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘don’t spoil everything. Mr. Wonka is a fantastic man. He’s my friend. I love him.’
‘Charlie’s right,’ whispered Grandpa Joe, joining the group. ‘Now you be quiet, Josie, and don’t make trouble.’
‘We must hurry!’ said Mr. Wonka. ‘We have so much time and so little to do! No! Wait! Strike that! Reverse it! Thank you! Now back to the factory!’ he cried, clapping his hands once and springing two feet in the air with two feet. ‘Back we fly to the factory! But we must go up before we can come down! We must go higher and higher!’
[ . . . ]
‘But why?’ they all shouted at once. ‘Why up and not down?’
‘Because the higher we are when we start coming down, the faster we’ll be going when we hit,’ said Mr. Wonka. ‘We’ve got to be going at an absolutely sizzling speed when we hit!’
‘When we hit what?’ they cried.
‘The factory, of course,’ answered Mr. Wonka.
‘You must be whackers!’ said Grandma Josephine. ‘We’ll all be pulpified!’
‘We’ll be scrambled like eggs!’ said Grandma Georgina.
‘That,’ said Mr. Wonka, ‘is a chance we shall have to take.’
‘You’re joking,’ said Grandma Josephine. ‘Tell us you’re joking.’
‘Madam,’ said Mr. Wonka, ‘I never joke.’
‘Oh, my dears!’ cried Grandma Georgina. ‘We’ll be lixivated, every one of us!’
‘More than likely,’ said Mr. Wonka.
[ . . . ]
‘Mr. Wonka!’ [Charlie] yelled above the noise. ‘What I don’t understand is why we’ve got to come down at such a terrific speed.’
‘My dear boy,’ Mr. Wonka answered, ‘if we don’t come down at a terrific speed, we’ll never burst our way back in through the roof of the factory. It’s not easy to punch a hole in a roof as strong as that.’
‘But there’s a hole in it already,’ said Charlie. ‘We made it when we came out.’
‘Then we shall make another,’ said Mr. Wonka. ‘Two holes are better than one. Any mouse will tell you that.’” (Pg. 2-5)

One of Dahl’s talents as a children’s writer was his ability to inject just the right amount of comedy into his more dangerous plot points in order to take away the edge of horror. Not unlike in traditional fairy tales, the circumstances could be so outlandish that even if death does occur, it’s a lot less likely to phase you, especially if happens to the bad guys. Be honest: how many of you really feared for the lives of Augustus Gloop, Violet Beauregarde, Veruca Salt, and Mike Teevee in the face of the literally sticky situations they’d so arrogantly gotten themselves into? This time around, though, Dahl raises the stakes. In the climax of the space episode, a particularly venomous Vermicous Knid is in hot pursuit of the Great Glass Elevator and its occupants as they fly above planet earth. No matter how deadly they are, aliens that looks like giant googly-eyed chicken nuggets able to elongate itself like snakes and form letters to spell out the word “SCRAM” come off to me as more funny than scary. And then you have Wonka taunting them in verse that’s just as wild as anything the Oompa Loompas could think up. It’s almost like Dahl’s practically daring you to keep your face straight:

“And there it was, cruising effortlessly alongside them, a simply colossal Vermicious Knid, as thick as a whale, as long as a truck, with the most brutal vermicious look in its eye. It was no more than a dozen yards away, egg-shaped, slimy, greenish brown, with one malevolent red eye (the only one visible) fixed intently upon the people floating inside the Great Glass Elevator.

[ . . . ]

‘Oh, you Knid, you are vile and vermicious!’
cried Mr. Wonka.
‘You are slimy and soggy and squishous!
But what do we care
‘Cause you can’t get in here,
So hop it and don’t get ambitious!’

At this point, the massive Knid outside turned and started cruising away from the Elevator. ‘There you are!’ cried Mr. Wonka, triumphant. ‘It heard me! It’s going home!’ But Mr. Wonka was wrong. When the creature was about a hundred yards away, it stopped, hovered for a moment, then went smoothly in reverse, coming back toward the Elevator with its rear-end (which was the pointed end of the egg) now in front. Even going backward, its acceleration was unbelievable. It was like some monstrous bullet coming at them and it came so fast nobody had time even to cry out.
CRASH! It struck the Glass Elevator with the most enormous bang and the whole thing shivered and shook, but the glass held and the Knid bounced off like a rubber ball.
‘What did I tell you!’ shouted Mr. Wonka, triumphant. ‘We’re safe as sausages in here!’
‘He’ll have a nasty headache after that,’ said Grandpa Joe.
‘It’s not his head, it’s his bottom!’ said Charlie. ‘Look Grandpa, there’s a big bump coming up on the pointed end where he hit! It’s turning black and blue!’
And so it was. A purple bruisy bump the size of a small automobile was appearing on the pointed rear-end of the giant Knid. ‘Hello, you dirty great beast!’ cried Mr. Wonka.

‘Hello, you great Knid! Tell us, how do you do?
You’re a rather strange color today.
Your bottom is purple and lavender blue.
Should it really be looking that way?

Are you not feeling well? Are you going to faint?
Is it something we cannot discuss?
It must be a very unpleasant complaint,
For your fanny’s as big as a bus!

Let me get you a doctor. I know just the man
For a Knid with a nasty disease.
He’s a butcher by trade which is not a bad plan,
And he charges quite reasonable fees.

Ah! Here he is now! Doc, you really are kind
To travel so far into space. There’s your patient, the Knid with the
purple behind!
Do you think it’s a desperate case?

“Great heavens above! It’s no wonder he’s pale!”
Said the doc with a horrible grin.
“There’s a sort of balloon on the end of his tail!
I must prick it at once with a pin!”

So he got out a thing like an Indian spear,
With feathers all over the top,
And he lunged and he caught the Knid smack
in the rear,
But alas, the balloon didn’t pop!

Cried the Knid, ‘What on earth am I going to do
With this painful preposterous lump?
I can’t remain standing the whole summer
through!
And I cannot sit down on my rump!

“It’s a bad case of rear-ache,” the medico said,
“And it’s something I cannot repair.
If you want to sit down, you must sit on
your head,
With your bottom high up in the air!’’’” (Pg. 57-61)

Dahl refused to permit this sequel to receive the film treatment in his lifetime due to his strong disdain for the adaptation Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Truth be told, I personally doubt a Glass Elevator movie would do that well, but I’m fond enough of Dahl’s work that curiosity would compel me to see it if it ever did come to fruition. Regardless, those searching for his stylistic trademarks won’t be disappointed here. While Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator doesn’t quite live up to its predecessor in terms of surprise twists and over-the-top silliness, I don’t think it should be dismissed as a bad nut to be tossed down the garbage chute either, as it certainly isn’t lacking in the wit, poetry, and imagination that immortalized Dahl’s name in children’s literature. Try this underrated treat for yourself and see if it’s wild and wacky enough for your mental taste buds.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator by Roald Dahl (Puffin Edition 1998, published by the Penguin Group, New York, NY).

MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

https://www.briandmorrison.com/
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https://www.youtube.com/user/briandmorrison

EPISODE SONGS:
“Cosmic Candy Circus” - Briand Morrison

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“Unidentified Flying Oddball” - Briand Morrison

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Indeterminable Immortality: Replay

1/3/2020

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1986, Ages 17 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of a man who dies—only to revive in his own past and be forced to live it all over again.
(1/3/20)

And now a reading from the book of Ecclesiastes:

"1 The words of Qoheleth, king in Jerusalem:

Vanity of Toil without Profit

2 Vanity of vanities, says Qoheleth,
vanity of vanities! All things are vanity!
3 What profit has man from all the labor
which he toils at under the sun?
4 One generation passes and another comes,
but the world forever stays.

[ . . . ]

9 What has been, that will be; what has been done, that will be done. Nothing is new under the sun. 10 Even the thing of which we say, ‘See, this is new!' has already existed in the ages that preceded us. 11 There is no remembrance of the men of old; nor of those to come will there be any remembrance among those who come after them.

[ . . . ]

12 I, Qoheleth, was king over Israel in Jerusalem, 13 and I applied my mind to search and to investigate in wisdom all things that are done under the sun.

A thankless task God has appointed
For men to be busied about.

14 I have seen all the things that are done under the sun, and behold, all is vanity and a chase after the wind.

15 What is crooked cannot be made straight;
what is missing cannot be supplied.

16 Though I said to myself, ‘Behold, I have become great and stored up wisdom beyond all who were before me in Jerusalem, and my mind has broad experience of wisdom and knowledge’: 17 yet when I applied my mind to know wisdom and knowledge, madness and folly, I learned that this, also, is a chase after wind.

18 For in much wisdom there is much sorrow;
and he who stores up knowledge, stores up grief." (Ecc. 1:1-18, New American Bible)

I don’t remember whether any of these verses are the ones my Modern Fantasy professor referenced in relation to this novel. But I feel they are an appropriate setup for such a provocative story nonetheless.

The year is 1988. Forty-three year-old radio journalist Jeff Winston is in the middle of a tense phone conversation with his wife when, all of a sudden, he dies of a heart attack. But that does not mark the end of Jeff. To his utter shock, Jeff reawakens not only alive and well, but inside his eighteen-year-old body in 1963. Even more incredible, he has full recollection of his “previous” existence, including every significant world event that did and will transpire in the next twenty-five years, from natural disasters and political scandals to sports winnings and stock market outcomes. He seizes the opportunity to improve this second life with his “past” and “future” knowledge. But this prospect turns out to be quite literally short-lived when he finds that, no matter where he is or what historical changes he’s made, he will keep dying in the exact same time in the exact same year as before, only to revive in the past of an entirely new timeline, with every memory of every life still intact. With billions of unanswered questions and seemingly no way to survive beyond 1988, what Jeff faces going forward will either strengthen his will to live, or destroy it.

I first read this sci-fi fantasy novel when I was studying alternate history in fiction. Author Ken Grimwood’s most famous book, Replay is often thought to be a precursor to a similarly structured film, Groundhog Day. Believe it or not, it was actually while he was writing a sequel to Replay that Grimwood died of a heart attack himself. I have no words for that except: Woah. Grimwood’s specialty as a writer was the exploration of philosophical and existential ideas through a metaphysical lens. In fact, Replay was just one of at least three of his stories in which he used time travel as a means for his characters to contemplate the true meaning and purpose of human existence. His 1976 debut, Breakthrough, tells the story of an epileptic woman whose experimental brain implants enable her to read the mind of her past self from 200 years ago, and Elise, the title character of his very rare 1979 book, is an immortal woman who is shaped by her experiences with the numerous lovers she involves herself with over the centuries. What sets those examples apart from this, however, is that they feel much better controlled, and more voluntary. When Jeff finds himself back in time, it is not only the events of his past appearing again in tangible form that unnerve him so. The architecture, the fashion, the people, the social norms, the mannerisms, his own body; the sheer differences of such ordinary things between the decades make them feel utterly alien to him, especially those he has a personal connection with:

“The door of the room swung open, and the inner knob banged against a bookcase. Just as it always had.
‘Hey, what the hell are you still doing here? It’s a quarter to eleven. I thought you had an American Lit test at ten.’
Martin stood in the doorway, a Coke in one hand and a load of textbooks in the other. Martin Bailey, Jeff’s freshman-year roommate; his closest friend through college and for several years thereafter.
Martin had committed suicide in 1981, right after his divorce and subsequent bankruptcy.
‘So what’re you gonna do,’ Martin asked, ‘take an F?’
Jeff looked at his long-dead friend in stunned silence: the thick black hair that had not yet begun to recede, the unlined face, the bright, adolescent eyes that had seen no pain, to speak of.’

[. . .]

‘Jeff sat alone at a table for two in a UFO-shaped Polaris bar atop the Hyatt Regency, watching the denuded Atlanta skyline rotate past him every forty-five minutes. The cab driver hadn’t been ignorant, after all: The seventy-story cylinder of the Peachtree Plaza didn’t exist. Gone, too, were the towers of the Omni International, the grey stone bulk of the Georgia Pacific Building, and Equitable’s great black box. The most commanding structure in all of downtown Atlanta was this one, with its widely copied atrium lobby. A brief conversation with the waitress, though, had made it clear that the hotel was new and as yet unique.
The hardest moment had come when Jeff had looked into the mirror behind the bar. He’d done so purposefully, knowing full well by then what he would see, but still he was shocked to confront his own pale, lanky eighteen-year-old reflection.
Objectively, the boy in the mirror looked somewhat more mature than that; he’d seldom had problems being served liquor at that age, as with the waitress just now, but Jeff knew that was merely an illusion caused by his height and his deep-set eyes. To his own mind, the image in the mirror was of an untried and unscarred youth.
And that youth was himself. Not in memory, but here, now: these unlined hands with which he held his drink, these sharply focused eyes with which he saw.
‘You ready for another one yet, honey?’
The waitress smiled prettily at him, lips bright red beneath her heavily mascaraed eyes and antiquated beehive hairdo. She wore a ‘futuristic’ costume, an iridescent blue mini-dress of the sort that would be worn by young women everywhere in another two or three years.
Two or three years from now. The early sixties.
Jesus Christ.” (Pg. 6-11)

Grimwood utilizes his own expertise in journalism to add authentic import to the narrative. The sheer amount of historical events he makes reference to is impressive by itself, but even more so is the manner in which he makes those references hit so close to home through Jeff’s eyes. Even the most turbulent eras, once they end, can and do lose their emotional impact in the collective consciousness, as the progression of time may at least soften the blow, if not completely heal the wounds. But for Jeff, the knowledge that such terrible events will happen over and over again, whether isolated incidents like the Independence Day floods of Lake Erie or world-changing catastrophes like JFK’s assassination, and that everything positive he achieves will be completely erased as soon as he dies, weighs more heavily on his mind with every replay.

Now lest you’re afraid the repeating time loops will make the storytelling go stale fast, Grimwood throws in some clever curve balls by offering Jeff a cosmic double-edged sword of sorts, a revelation that confounds and devastates him even as it eases his temporal loneliness. Against all odds, he locates another “replayer”, a woman named Pamela Phillips, who began her own replaying at age fourteen. (No question, she got this way worse than Jeff did; imagine the trauma of having to constantly relive your teen years. Ugh.) The two take the greatest joy in the fact that neither of them are alone in this terrifying phenomenon, that even with the inevitability of their “deaths” looming over them they can look forward to finding each other’s love and comfort. But yet another shocking discovery obliterates what little structure they create. While their times of death are always right on the dot, their replays occur later and later in their original timelines to the point where they each wake up with only months, weeks, and days instead of years to live a “new life”, what the two call a “skew” in time. And as their individual skews grow longer and longer, the time they have at all, let alone with each other, becomes all the more precious. But with that preciousness comes the regret that accomplishing one thing, even a wonderful and gratifying thing, means not accomplishing another, the mourning of so many possibilities unrealized and so many wishes unfulfilled, even in the midst of a life well lived:

“Pamela turned to Jeff, let flow the tears she’d been holding back. ‘I don’t want them to go. It’s still another month before . . . before . . .’
He embraced her, smoothed her hair. ‘We’ve been through all this before,’ he told her gently. ‘It’s best for them to have a few weeks to adjust to being with their father again, to make new friends . . . That may help them absorb the shock a little.’
‘Jeff,’ she said, sobbing, ‘I’m scared! I don’t want to die! Not . . . die forever, and—’
He hugged her tightly, rocked her in his arms and felt his own tears trickle down his face. ‘Just think of how we’ve lived. Think of all we’ve done, and let’s try to be grateful for that.’
‘But we could have done so much more. We could have—’
‘Hush,’ he whispered. ‘We did all we could. More than either of us ever dreamed when we were first starting out.’
She leaned back, searched his eyes as if seeing them for the first time, or the last. ‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘It’s just . . . I got so used to the endless possibilities, the time . . . never being bound by our mistakes, always knowing we could go back and change things, make them better. But we didn’t, did we? We only made things different.’ (Pg. 287)

[. . .]

Now that Pamela was gone, the fears and regrets she had expressed came back to trouble him as deeply as they’d disturbed her toward the end. He’d done what he could to reassure her, to ease the grief and terror of her final days, but she’d been right: For all that they had struggled, all they’d once achieved, the end result was null. Even the happiness they had managed to find together had been frustratingly brief; a few years stolen here and there, transient moments of love and contentment like vanishing specks of foam in a sea of lonely, needless separation.
It had seemed as if they would have forever, an infinity of choices and second chances. They had squandered far too much of the priceless time that had been granted them, wasted it on bitterness and guilt and futile quests for nonexistent answers—when they themselves, their love for each other, had been all the answer either of them should have ever needed. Now even the opportunity to tell her that, to hold her in his arms and let her know how much he had revered and cherished her, was eternally denied him. Pamela was dead, and in three years’ time Jeff, too, would die, never knowing why he’d lived.
He roamed his city streets, watching, listening: tough-eyed bands of punks, furious at the world . . . men and women in corporate attire, hurrying to accomplish whatever goals they had established for themselves . . . giggling swarms of children, exuberant at the newness of their lives. Jeff envied them all, coveted their innocence, their ignorance, their expectations.” (Pg. 291-292)

To write Replay off as simply another “be careful what you wish for” scenario involving a guy going through a specific time period over and over again would do it a very grave disservice. I feel it’s less about striving to “edit” and “re-edit” the mistakes or undesirable situations of a given timeline until some “perfect” Hollywood ending is achieved, and more about experiencing different ways of life and understanding that there is no single right way to live it to the fullest. Extraordinary circumstances aside, I think Grimwood’s story is one that any adult can relate to because its protagonist is someone we can all empathize with: an ordinary but good man who wonders why he exists, whether there are greater forces at work that either guide or coerce his decisions, and what he can and should live for. The book’s primary trope may be old hat by now, but what we can learn from this example truly is timeless.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

Unless noted otherwise, all book excerpts are from Replay by Ken Grimwood (First Quill Edition 1998, published by William Marrow Paperbacks, New York).

MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

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EPISODE SONGS:
“Reincarnation” - Briand Morrison

“Double Life” - Briand Morrison

“Unfulfilled” - Briand Morrison

Download the full 15-minute episode here!

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Lost Boys: The Stolen Child

6/7/2019

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2006, Ages 17 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of a boy, a fairy, and the lives they must lead after being forced into each other’s worlds.
(6/7/19)

It’s not entirely surprising when kids and adults say want to trade places. Kids usually want the respect and power that only comes with age, and adults often wish they could go back to the days of boundless energy and carefree dreams. As for me, while I would never get rid of my inner child for anything, I really have no regrets leaving my childhood in the past where it belongs. There are plenty of tales out there that explore these ideas, sometimes by way of showing children literally becoming stuck in adults’ bodies and/or adults in children’s bodies, whether through body-switching or accelerated aging or de-aging, with the immediate results often being equal parts weird and hilarious. But when all is said and done, such scenarios typically end with said characters being returned to their proper ages and forms, wiser for the wear. But . . . what if that end didn’t come for years, or even decades? What if it never came at all? Would the result be depression? Confusion? Anger? Madness? Or maybe all of the above?

In 1949, seven-year-old Henry Day is kidnapped by changelings—wild, ancient, childlike creatures that dwell in the woods—and becomes one of them. Meanwhile, another changeling takes his place, reforming himself in Henry’s image and now living his life among the Day family. In time, they each learn to adjust to their new roles. The new changeling—renamed Aniday by his now-fellow changelings—must adapt to and survive their strange ways as well as the harsh wilderness, while the new Henry Day must cope with the ordinary but strenuous trials of adolescence. But even as the two boys overcome their respective ordeals and thrive in the years that follow, they are increasingly haunted by vague memories of their past and regretful of the humanity they lost at the hands of the changelings. Despite the risk of discovery and death by humans becoming ever greater as a result of their growing obsession, neither Henry nor Aniday will be able to rest until they understand who they once were and find a way to come to terms with each other and all of their identities.

Keith Donohue’s debut novel is inspired by the 1889 poem of the same name by famed Irish poet, William Butler Yeats, about fairies beguiling and tempting a human child to run away with them. In relation to this book, I think the romantic implications of Yeats’ poem are painfully ironic. Donohue keeps the primary lore about the human/fairy switch intact, but that’s where the similarities end. His changeling band is indigenous hunter-gatherer tribe, wolf pack, and kids’ street gang all rolled into one. They survive off the land while also organizing raids in order to steal clothes and supplies for protection against the elements as well as for amusement. It’s almost like observing an ongoing slumber party at a permanent summer camp, albeit with kids under ten smoking and even lovemaking at times.

Henry and Aniday tell their stories years after their respective switches occurred, thus their “adult” voices and minds are consistent even when they are “children”. In spite of the radically different lives they once lived and are living now, they still cherish their humanity more than anything, and often show their disgust at the changelings’ conduct. The boys fear losing not only their personal memories, but the very memory of being human. Thus they each turn to a hobby that epitomizes what separates humans from animals: the arts.

Aniday takes to reading, writing, and drawing, I think in part because, having lived only seven human years before being taken, it’s really all he knows at that point—and to his dismay, it shows. Between the limitations of his used and stolen art supplies and his initial pitiful lack of artistic ability, his desperation to keep alive what he believes to be his true self is palpable:

“[. . .] Up and out of bed, I savored the light growing strong enough for drawing and writing. I took out my papers and pencil, put a cold flat stone on my lap, and folded the mortgage statement into quarters. I drew a cross along the folds and made panels for four drawings. The pencil was at once odd and familiar in my grasp. In the first panel, I created from memory my mother and father, my two baby sisters, and myself, full-body portraits lined up in a straight row. When I considered my work, they looked crude and uneven, and I was disappointed in myself.

[. . .]

“Writing proved more painful than drawing. Certain letters—B,G,R,W—caused my hand to cramp. In those early writings, sometimes my K bent backwards, S went astray, an F accidentally became an E, and other errors that are amusing to me now as I look back on my early years, but at the time, my handwriting caused me much shame and embarrassment. Worse than the alphabet, however, were the words themselves. I could not spell for beans and lacked all punctuation. My vocabulary annoyed me, not to mention style, diction, sentence structure, variety, adjectives and adverbs, and other such matters. The physical act of writing took forever. Sentences had to be assembled nail by nail, and once complete, they stood no better than a crude approximation of what I felt or wanted to say, a woebegone fence across a white field. Yet I persisted through that morning, writing down all I could remember in whatever words I had at my command.” (Pg. 51-53)

For his part, Henry couldn’t be happier being a normal human once more—or more terrified that it could end all over again. He finds his artistic calling in music. After the initial difficulty of “mastering” the piano at a rate not unusual for a young boy, his imagination is enriched and his soul stirred in a way they could never be when he lived among the callous and unrefined changelings:

“For the next eight years, I took piano lessons, and it was the happiest time of all my lives. [. . .] On Wednesdays and Saturdays, the trip to the city proved a tonic, away from farm and family and into civilization. No longer something wild, but a creature of culture, on my way to becoming a virtuoso once again.” (Pg. 44)

[. . .]

The glory of the experience rested in the simple fact that my musical talent was a human one. There were no pianos in the woods. And as my magic slowly diminished, my artistry increased. I felt more and more removed from those who had taken me for a hundred years, and my sole hope and prayer was that they would leave me alone.

[. . .]

I played every chance I could get. Over the next few years, I spent hours each day at the keys, enthralled by the mathematics of the notes. The music seized me like a river current pushing my conscious self deeper into my core, as if there were no other sound in the world but one. I grew my legs an inch longer than necessary that first summer in order to better reach the pedals on the upright. Around the house, school, and town, I practiced spreading my fingers as far apart as they would go. The pads of my fingertips became smooth and feather-sensitive. My shoulders bowed down and forward. I dreamt in wave after wave of scales. The more adept my skill and understanding grew, the more I realized the power of musical phrasing in everyday life. The trick involves getting people to listen to the weak beats and seemingly insignificant silences between notes, the absence of tones between tones. By phrasing the matter with a ruthlessly precise logic, one can play—or say—anything. Music taught me great self-control.” (Pg. 55-57)

As the book progresses, we see how the boys’ actions directly and indirectly influence more than just each other. No matter how carefully Henry and Aniday try to distance themselves from each other’s races in order to protect themselves, their close proximity torments and endangers them both. But just as bad as their mortal danger, if not worse, is the psychological danger placed on those around them, namely when those victims wind up witnessing more than, and yet not as much as, they should:

HENRY’S POV:

“[. . .] [Dad’s] voice woke me at first light, and I followed the sound from my bedroom and through the back doorway. A feathery mist rose from the lawn and he stood, his back to me, in the middle of the wet grass, calling out my name as he faced a stand of firs. A dark trail of footsteps led into the woods ten feet in front of him. He was stuck to the spot, as if he had startled a wild animal that fled away in fear. But I saw no creature. By the time I drew near, the diminuendo of a few raspy calls of ‘Henry’ lingered in the air. Then he fell to his knees, bent his head to the ground, and quietly wept. I crept back into the house, and pretended to be reading the sports page when he came in. My father stared at me hunched over the newspaper, my long fingers wrapped around a coffee cup. The wet belt of his robe dragged along the floor like a chain. Soaked, disheveled, and unshaven, he seemed much older, but maybe I had not noticed before how he was aging. His hands trembled as if palsied, and he took a Camel from his pocket. The cigarette was too wet to light despite his repeated attempts, so he crumpled the whole pack and tossed it in the trash can. I set a cup of coffee in front of him, and he stared at the steam as if I had handed him poison.
‘Dad, are you all right? You look a mess.’
‘You.’ He pointed his finger at me like a gun, but that’s all he said. The word hung in the air all morning, and I do not think I ever heard him call me ‘Henry’ again.” (Pg. 98-99)

ANIDAY’S POV:

“[. . .] The door swung open suddenly, petrifying me on the spot. A man came down the stairs, pausing on the next-to-bottom step to light a cigarette. Wrapped in a blue robe, the figure took one step forward, then lifted his foot, startled by the moisture. He laughed and cursed softly. The specter still did not notice me, though we faced each other—he at the edge of the house, and I at the edge of the forest. I wanted to turn around and see what he was looking for, but I stood frozen as a hare as the daybreak lifted around us. From the lawn, a chill rose in wisps of fog. He drew closer, and I held my breath. Not a dozen steps between us, he stopped. The cigarette fell from his fingers. He took one more step toward me. His brow creased with worry. His thin hair blew in the breeze. An eternity passed as his eyes danced in their sockets. His lips trembled when he opened his mouth to speak.
‘And we? Envy?’
The words coming to me did not make sense.
‘Is a chew? Atchoo? Can a bee, Houston?’
The sounds he made hurt my ears. At that moment I wished to be sleeping in Speck’s arms again. He knelt on the damp grass and spread out his arms as if he expected me to run to him. But I was confused and did not know if he meant me harm, so I turned and sprinted, as fast as I could go. The monstrous gargle from his throat followed me deep into the forest until, as suddenly, the strange words stopped, yet I kept running all the way home.” (Pg. 108-109)

What makes this all the more tragic is that, because the boys are telling only what they know from only their own perspectives, they never see or understand the full truth of either the sequence of events or each other’s true feelings the way the readers do. The more their lives intersect, the more the simple misunderstandings pile up. Like the lead-up to a war, the animosity between two well-meaning but very confused individuals from vastly different cultures intensifies until it comes to a head. What’s worse, their very natures forbid them from asking for help or bearing their souls to virtually anyone. And inner battles are often much harder to fight than outside ones.

Though not a revenge story at its core, it does illustrate a struggle between two sides with much at stake. An emotional and bittersweet tale of an identity crisis at its most hellish, The Stolen Child offers a highly unique take on the changeling legend that portrays the loss of innocence, the defining and preservation of humanity, and the relentless search for one’s true self. Out of all the changeling-related plots I’ve seen in other media, this novel is to me one of the most psychologically complex and existentially ambiguous, making a serious attempt to realistically address the implications of such a drastic change to one’s being. For when has a soul not felt lost and alone upon being ripped from all they know, never to see it again accept in memory?

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from The Stolen Child by Keith Donohue (First Anchor Books edition, May 2007; published by Anchor Books, a division of Random House, Inc).

MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

https://www.briandmorrison.com/
https://www.facebook.com/BriandMorrisonGuitar/
https://www.youtube.com/user/briandmorrison

EPISODE SONGS:
“Coming of Age” - Briand Morrison

“The Art of Humanity” - Briand Morrison

“Who Are We?” - Briand Morrison

Download the full 15-minute episode here!

Keith Donohue on Wikipedia

Keith Donohue's Official Website

The Stolen Child on Goodreads

Buy The Stolen Child at Barnes & Noble

Buy The Stolen Child on Amazon

Buy The Stolen Child on eBay

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Inner Human Child: The Witch’s Boy

3/31/2019

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2005, Ages 12 and Up
Gather round and I’ll tell you the tale of a goblin child whose upbringing by a mysterious witch teaches him how to find the meaning of true happiness.
(3/1/19)

It’s a well-known if, unfortunately, not well-practiced, fact that not all people make good parents. Even those with the best intentions may be unable, for whatever reason, to raise a child in a healthy manner. As much as I like kids and kids’ stories, I’ve long since discovered and decided that, though I am many things, mother material is not one of them. Heck, taking care of a dog for a family friend while he was out of town for a week is the closest I’ve ever come to babysitting. In a way, the would-be parent in this novel reminds me of myself. I may not be a witch, but I, too, value my freedom to practice my preferred craft and time to meditate both on the world and on things known only to myself. So what if I suddenly had a living, breathing baby to look after? Would I raise him into a stable and content adult with the material instincts I didn’t know I had? Or would my inexperience and neglect turn him into a monster?

Deep in the woods, far from the ways of Man, a witch lives in peaceful solitude. Neither good nor evil, her very name unknown but to herself and to the powers she serves, she spends her days studying nature and its many mysteries, the flora and fauna her only company. But one day, she comes across something strange even to her: an abandoned infant, more goblin than human, possibly the most hideous offspring ever spawned. Against her better judgement, the witch takes him in, intending to raise him with the help of her cat familiar, Falance, Ysul, the she-bear, and Bagordax, a powerful demon. Though the boy, whom the witch names Lump, at first thrives within this home filled with magic and wonder, such a childhood leaves him woefully unprepared when he is faced with the cold reality that is mankind and its cruelty. As Lump grows up, his broken heart and unfulfilled dreams corrupt him with a lust for power that threatens his foster mother and those loyal to her. With neither the witch’s teachings nor all the magic in the world able to reform or heal him, it falls on Lump himself to rediscover the innocence he once had and seek out his own inner peace and happiness.

As of the time of this writing, I’ve not read any of Michael Gruber’s other books, so I can’t offer any comparisons between this and them. All I can say is, when I found The Witch’s Boy as a young teen, I thought, “Hey, it has magic in it; I’m in.” Readers who love fairy tales—like me—will love the way Gruber weaves in references to many famous fairy tales, having both protagonists and side characters of the narrative proper talk about them as though they were personal experiences or actual historical events. But these serve a greater purpose than simply further showing off the already magical setting. Gruber subverts these tales in ways that realistically explore characters’ psyches and motivations, and which not-so-subtly suggest that the traditional stories are just the offensively sanitized, nonsensical ramblings of superstitious humans and these new accounts tell the real, brutally honest truth as nature intended. Depending on your point of view, it can be difficult to decide which versions are meant to be more provocative and disturbing. That being said, we are offered some very intriguing alternate scenarios here. For example: What if Cinderella was in fact an unhinged clean freak who ditched her kind--not mean—stepmother for the prince? What if Pinocchio did forego school to become a performer? What if Sleepy Beauty regretted being awakened and longed to go back to her perfect dream world? And what if a dangerous predator was instead a true friend and ally and a brave, strong man the real monster to the witch when she was once an innocent little girl in a bright red cloak?

But fantasy is only the backdrop to a story that can be all too real: a mother who, besides being distracted by her work, doesn’t know how to be a mother in the first place, and the negative impact this has on her charge. The witch is not the easiest protagonist to sympathize with at times. As far as parenting is concerned, she is often lazy and selfish, making excuses for her faults while being confused whenever Lump is disagreeable. But these are portrayed not as evil traits so much as human ones. It is interesting to note that the omniscient narrator refers to the witch primarily as “the woman”. This is partly due to her true name being a cosmic mystery not meant for mortal ears, but I think it also emphasizes the fact that she may be practically a deity in her own right, but she is also still a woman. She can easily make sure Lump has food and shelter, but as she comes to see too late the result of giving him little else, all she is left with is an angry and bitter child, and she, for all her power, is left feeling truly vulnerable and full of guilt and regret:

“‘That child is spoiled,’ said the cat from his comfortable perch in a stone niche near the hearth.
The woman looked at him crossly and was about to make an objection, but a tiredness came over her suddenly, of the sort well-known to those whose children have not turned out as well as they had expected, and she simply sighed.
‘I think you are right, Falance,’ she admitted. ‘I cannot see why, however. The boy has had everything that is proper for a child—food, warmth, shelter, well-fitting shoes—’
‘What we say,’ the cat said, interrupting this litany, ‘is cuff and cuddle cats the kitten. This child has had little of either cuffs or cuddles.’
‘That is untrue,’ said the woman. ‘I have spent many hours with him, baby and boy.’
‘Yes, and when he grew fretful, or you bored, you called for Ysul.’
‘What! Am I to be taught mothering by an old tomcat?’
For once, the cat did not flinch; cats have a keen sense of who has the moral advantage, and, having once seized it, he was not about to give it up. He ignored her angry gaze. ‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘you are not fond of him, or rather you are as fond of him as you are of everything. His little achievements bring a smile to your lips, but it is the same smile you bestow on the first iris or a passing badger. You are correct that I am no expert, yet I don’t think this is the usual case among mothers of men. Instead, they dote. With us, it sometimes happens that a mother will ignore one of her kits, and it will grow into a runt, snarling and ill-mannered, yet still it has its brothers and sisters to heap among, be warmed by, to play with and learn from. You will observe that Lump has never had this chance. He has no sibs, nor even friends of his own kind.’
‘I never had friends!’ the woman blurted out in a strange, harsh tone that surprised both her companion and her.
Then they were both silent for a period, while she tended to her pastry. She made a tray of strawberry tarts—Lump’s favorite—stoked the fire, and popped them into the oven. Wiping her hands, she settled herself in a chair facing the hearth. When she spoke, her voice was weary. ‘I suppose you will say I should have known better. You will say you warned me of this.’
‘No cat would be so rude,’ said Falance. ‘You followed your heart, which, despite all, cannot be entirely ill. Nevertheless, it is a fair puzzle. Something must be done. The child is what? Ten years old?’
‘Something like that,’ said the woman, suddenly conscious that parents elsewhere were not so vague and made much of their children’s birthdays and held parties to celebrate them. The woman had never thought to do this and regretted it, now. Witches do not attend many parties, and those they do go to are hardly suitable for children.
‘Then it is time you thought about what he will do to make his way in the world,’ the cat went on. ‘He cannot stay here forever.’
‘No, of course not,’ the woman murmured.” (Pg. 62-65)

Of course, Lump is not blameless either. The segments in which he watches his enchanted windows reminds me of the final lines from the second to last chapter of Peter Pan, in which Peter watches the Darling children’s reunion with their parents from afar:

“There could not have been a lovelier sight; but there was none to see it except a strange boy who was staring in at the window. He had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know; but he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he must be for ever barred.”

I think this matches Lump’s dilemma perfectly. He, too, is surrounded by marvels that any kid would be lucky enough to even dream about, but no friends to share them with. However, Peter Pan is literally a master of his realm, able to fly and to fight, with no authority figures to thwart him. Lump has no magical abilities whatsoever and is subject to the wishes of both his mother and her servants. But perhaps most pitiful of all, he lacks even the freedom to seek out friends. He is not allowed any contact with other people due to his appearance, partly for his protection, but then he has no idea he is ugly. Not only does this delude him into believing he is handsome while humans are deformed, but it gives him an increasingly dangerous superiority complex. The continual denial of his desires and reminding of his weaknesses only further intensify his loneliness—and eventually, his egotism:

“A year passed. Lump was nearly eleven, the age when to ordinary children the company of friends is the dearest thing in the world. But Lump had no friends. Now, such children will often invent companions; in Lump’s case this natural tendency was supported by his two magic windows. [. . .]
[. . .] Lump could hear the chuffing and pawing of the camels in the stockade and an occasional raucous bleat. A tall narrow door opened at the side of the inn, and a small figure emerged—a boy of about Lump’s own age, dressed in a white robe and a white skullcap. Lump watched as the boy fed and watered the camels. Lump seemed to be right behind him as he worked and murmured to the beasts. ‘I don’t speak your language,’ Lump said in a low urgent voice, ‘but I know so much about you. I know your name is Djer and you have two sisters, Mahli and Zera, and your mother is Leila. You father is dead, killed by bandits, you believe, and you help your mother run the caravanserai. It is a lonely place; and while many people pass through, no one stays for long, and the friendships you make are only passing ones. You are lonely, I know; sometimes at night you come out by yourself and sing to the camels, playing music on a harp with two strings. How I wish you would look up just once and see me! Please look up! I am so lonely, too!’
And then it seemed that Djer did look up, and that their eyes met and that Djer smiled at him, but it was only that a hawk had flown across the dunes, as it were, behind Lump, where he could never look. Then the bird flew over the caravanserai and away, and Djer lifted his empty bucket and went back inside.
Lump could have wept with vexation. [. . .]
[. . .]
‘Farewell, my friends,’ he whispered through the glass; his breath clouded over the dancing scene like fog from the sea. Here was the real reason that he had wanted to learn magic, to command dragons and flying carpets, as he had seen and heard in the stories Bagordax had caused to play on his walls. Yes, he was a prisoner, too, a handsome prince cast away from all he loved.” (Pg. 71-74)

And these feelings only get worse as Lump grows into adulthood. By this time, he is much wiser regarding human nature and, as such, much more painfully aware and self-conscious of his looks. But this isn’t the only thing that hinders his social skills. Magic has enabled him to see the best and most beautiful the world has to offer. As a result, his views have been warped and his tastes spoiled for its plainer, less awe-inspiring side. So when a genuine opportunity to make friends with honest, caring people does come his way, he can’t bring himself to take those hands for fear of either being rejected or appearing common and weak, as has been done to him so often before.

Like many coming-of-age and self-discovery stories, this book isn’t easy to talk about without giving too much away. What makes The Witch’s Boy so masterful isn’t only its stunning, mystical, and romantic imagery and characters we want to see succeed in spite of their flaws and mistakes. It has a captivating way of using fantasy as a lens with which younger readers can explore issues faced by children and adults every day, from parenthood and familial relationships to social interaction, childhood trauma, and healing through personal reflection and forgiveness. Just as one doesn’t have to be young, beautiful, or even human in order to embark on a hero’s journey, one doesn’t have to be magic to make their own in their walk of life.

CREDITS:
Special thanks to KTWH 99.5 Two Harbors Community Radio. All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.

All book excerpts are from The Witch's Boy by Michael Gruber (published by HarperTempest, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers).

MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund

https://www.briandmorrison.com/
https://www.facebook.com/BriandMorrisonGuitar/
https://www.youtube.com/user/briandmorrison

EPISODE SONGS:
“Foundling” - Alex Nelson

https://www.facebook.com/alex.j.nelson.7

“Mother Love” - Alex Nelson

“Neither Nor” - Alex Nelson

Download the full 15-minute episode here!

Michael Gruber on Wikipedia

Michael Gruber's Official Website

The Witch's Boy on Goodreads

The Witch's Boy on Common Sense Media

The Witch's Boy at Barnes & Noble

The Witch's Boy on Amazon

The Witch's Boy on eBay

^^ Back to Books, Graphic Novels, and Other Works of Literature

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